A Desperate Indulgence
by SweeneyOCD98
Summary: John thinks it's 2012 after waking up with amnesia, having no memory of Mary. Sherlock, exhausted from years of tension and hiding his love, pretends they got married instead.
1. Beginning of a Lie

Of course something like this would happen only a couple cases after they began working together again. The universe loved to irritate Sherlock, didn't it? It happened so fast. He hadn't even wanted to take the case. After exposing a serial killer like Culverton, especially after no one believed him at first, Sherlock felt like he deserved a better case than going after a moron who stole a priceless bust. Honestly, he was above that by now! But John had wanted to do it.

"Come on, it's been awhile since we've been on a case that wasn't batshit insane," he said, avoiding Sherlock's eyes. (He had been doing that a lot lately.) "I'm out of practice with working with you, anyway."

Sherlock, aware of their fragile relationship and how John didn't really work with him on the Culverton case as much as he had reluctantly followed him around and listened to his drug-induced ramblings, decided to bite his tongue and agree. He and John were...getting better, he thought. He was coming over to Baker Street more often with Rosie, but there were times John couldn't look him in the eye and his posture would tense up. Sherlock thought it had to do with the unease between them since Mary's death, and the less than favorable things that happened during the Culverton affair, but John had apologized for that, and he forgave him. He truly did. John didn't seem to believe that, though, and was harboring guilt. Sherlock didn't want to bring it up and upset John, so he left it alone and hoped things would get back to normal. Somehow.

None of that was on Sherlock's mind now, however, because he was currently curled up in a chair beside a hospital bed. While wrestling with the moronic thief, an accomplice struck John in the head with a metal bar. He had fallen to the ground like a sack of rocks, and Sherlock nearly killed them both. Now here he was, watching John lie there. He had been unconscious for two weeks.

God, Sherlock was so stupid. He should have been paying more attention. He should have warned John the bar was coming. There had been so much blood coming from his head, enough to stain Sherlock's scarf as he held it to his wound…He rubbed his eyes. He hadn't gotten a good night's sleep since before the case. Each hour that John was still out cold made him grow more and more worried. He wasn't a doctor like John, but he knew how severe head injuries could be, especially as more time passed. The damage done could be irreparable. Sherlock swallowed down bile. He needed to eat. Too much stomach acid was sloshing around. John would want him to eat. He rubbed his jaw. _And shave, _he thought.

He pushed his growing fringe out of his eyes, sighing heavily. He felt responsible, but would John think so, too? Would this set them back again? That fear was on his mind this whole time. He wanted John to be friends with him again and didn't want to go through losing him another time. He was tired of it. Sherlock forgave him for his behavior after Mary's death. He did. He knew John was at his absolute worst and wasn't thinking clearly. But that didn't change how much it all hurt. He tried to shut off his heart all of his life because he knew how much romantic entanglement could and would hurt him, and yet somehow John Watson found his way into Sherlock's heart a long time ago and had no intention of leaving, no matter what happened between them. Sherlock knew what his feelings were by now and that there was no going back. John was Sherlock's world. He couldn't stop loving him even if he if he-no, John was going to wake up. He had to. Sherlock swallowed. He wasn't there when John got shot, but he still knew this had to be one of the worst injuries he ever sustained. _Would _he wake up?

Sherlock stretched out his legs and his knees ached. He crossed his arms over his chest, pondering if he should go to the cafeteria and grab something, or stay here and continue watching John.

His fatigued body must have decided for him, though, because when he heard a slight groan, his head shot up from being bowed with his chin on his chest.

John's mouth twisted into a frown, his eyes moving behind his lids.

"John?" His voice was a croak. He cleared his throat, heart pounding.

He moaned, his hand twitching and grasping the sheet.

"John," he spoke clearer, but kept his voice soft.

"Huh?" John breathed, and then started coughing, most likely from not talking for weeks.

Sherlock was so happy he could cry. John was waking up. He was going to be okay. He pulled his chair closer to the bed, excitement bubbling in his veins. "Take it easy, John."

His eyes fluttered open, and then shut. His head lolled on the pillow towards Sherlock. He blinked his eyes open again, his gaze bleary, unfocused, and confused. A deep wrinkle formed in between his eyebrows, and somehow, he got paler. "Sh-Sherlock?" he rasped.

"Yes, John." He was smiling.

John stared at him. Slowly, his breathing grew heavier, his chest started heaving, and the beeps on the heart monitor got faster. He looked like he was going to pass out again.

Sherlock's smile fell. "John, what is it? Is it shock?" He supposed being unconscious for two weeks would do that.

"You-" John tried to lift his hand and point a finger at him, but his arm was weak and wobbled. He found his strength and held up his arm and pointed his finger. His eyes were huge. "You can't be here."

Sherlock's breath hitched. "What?"

John's arm fell, the heart monitor beeping quickly. "You're supposed to be dead," he whispered.

Oh. Oh _god _. Sherlock's jaw dropped. "John...John, what year is it?"

"What's that have to do with anything?" he snapped. He was breathing out of his mouth.

"Please answer the question," he said urgently.

"2012."

Sherlock felt woozy. "No," he said quietly. "No, John, it's 2017."

John was astounded. "It's fucking _what _?!"

Sherlock stood up on unsteady legs, beginning to back out of the room. "I should get your doctor."

"Sherlock!" he called out.

He fled the room. This was bad. This was very bad. He found the doctor (_What was her name? Not important). _"John's awake. He has amnesia."

He followed the doctor back to John's room. When they entered, John was rubbing his suspiciously wet eyes. Sherlock listened in the corner of the room as the doctor calmly explained to a fuming John that he had been in a coma for two weeks following a head injury and that yes, memory loss was to be expected. Forgetting the past five years of your life, though, was a little surprising.

"You remember nothing?" the doctor asked.

"Absolutely nothing," John replied curtly. "I thought he was dead, for Christ's sake."

Sherlock couldn't bring himself to speak.

"Your memory stops at your friend's 'death'?" she asked.

John cleared his throat. "Yeah."

"Perhaps there is some connection between that traumatic event and your memory loss," she observed, her tone detached and clinical. Was that how Sherlock sounded when he interviewed clients? He wanted to tell her to be more sensitive.

John looked away, tension in every one of his muscles. "Well when will it come back?" he asked in a mutter.

The doctor frowned. "I'm sorry, Doctor Watson, but there's no way of knowing. Amnesia is still a mystery to the medical world, as I'm sure you know. It could be tomorrow, next week, next month, a year from now, five years from now, or never."

John kept his eyes on the wall. "Okay," he said quietly.

Sherlock's heart was aching. "Thank you, doctor," he said, surprised at his own politeness, "I think John would like to rest now."

"Of course," she said. "I want to keep him here for a few days for observation, but he should go home at the end of the week. I'll leave you two now," she said with a light smile.

When they were alone, Sherlock felt like he was going to be sick.

John looked at him, his eyes suspiciously wet. He didn't say anything.

Sherlock wished the floor would swallow him up. "So. The last thing you remember is St. Bart's."

"No," he said, voice scratchy, "the last thing I remember is sitting alone in the flat a few days after your funeral."

Sherlock looked down at his shoes. He couldn't bear the expression John wore. "I'm sorry."

"When did you come back?" He sounded disgusted.

"November of 2014."

John sat up and then clutched his head, letting out a grunt of pain.

Sherlock's head snapped up. "Careful-"

"You let me think you were dead for _two _fucking years?" he spat.

"It's a long story," he mumbled.

"You're going to tell me all of it, you cock. You're lucky I'm weak from being bedridden or else I'd kick your arse right now," he said. It wasn't a joke.

Sherlock pressed his lips together. "You did, when I came back the first time."

"Good," he said proudly.

Sherlock knew John had a right to be angry, thinking that he had just been dead for two years, but he still winced. Great. He was on bad terms with John again.

John shook his head slowly. "I can't believe this is happening. I don't know what's more shocking, that you're alive or that I lost the last five bloody years of my life."

"I truly am sorry, John," Sherlock said sincerely, "for both your memory loss and my actions. I know now that it was wrong of me to leave you in the dark for that long. I should have told you what was going on. It's one of my greatest regrets. I never meant to hurt you."

John stared at him, blinking slowly. He had an expression caught between frustration and surprise. "You're serious."

"Yes?"

"I mean, this is a genuine apology. You're not messing with me. I don't remember you genuinely apologizing for anything. Well, I don't remember much anymore, now do I?"

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, squeezing them together for comfort. "Trust me, John, the last five years taught me to value you more."

The anger was still there, but a smidgen of softness entered his eyes. "Are you sure _you're _the one who didn't hit your head? You're...nicer than I remember you."

"Five years is a long time," Sherlock murmured.

"Yeah, guess it is. You still need to tell me why the fuck you faked your suicide." John rubbed his eyes with his finger. He brought his hands away from his eyes, glancing down at his left hand. "What's this?" he held up his hand and spread his fingers, focused on his wedding ring.

Sherlock's heart stopped. He didn't remember Mary. _Of course he doesn't remember Mary, you idiot. _His throat was clogged. He must not have remembered Rosie, either. That was certain to be a shock.

"Moriarty had three snipers, one trained on you, one on Mrs. Hudson, and the other on Lestrade," he spoke rapidly, trying to distract him. "If I hadn't jumped, all of you would have been killed. I then spent the next two years taking down the rest of Moriarty's network while being captured and tortured-oh, don't look that way, I got over it. I didn't tell you because I thought you would have blown my cover which would have killed us both. I realize my error and am sorry, John, for hurting you. If I could go back in time and do things differently, I would have let you in on the plan, but I cannot change the past." He was out of breath.

John was gobsmacked. "Okay, okay, wait. Tortured?"

"I got over it," he waved his hand, but realized he never told John about that before, even when he had his memory. Oops. "I assure you all of my assailants are dead."

"They better be," he muttered darkly. "So that's why you did it...Christ, Sherlock, I don't know how to take in any of this. How am I supposed to react?"

"I don't know," he said honestly.

John looked at the wall again, silent for a long moment. "I need some time to think," he said, an indirect command to leave.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock said. He left the room without another word. He made his way to the cafeteria in a daze, sitting down at one of the empty tables, staring into space. John didn't remember Mary. How was Sherlock going to explain her? Explaining his falsified suicide was easier because, in part, he still didn't fully understand Mary. _"Well, John, you got married to an ex-assassin who lied to you about her identity and then shot me to keep me quiet, but I told you to go back to her out of fear for your safety. Then, you sort of cheated on her, her past caught up with her, and she ran away to deal with a former colleague who was out for her blood, only to be killed by a bullet meant for me. Not sure why she did that when she tried to kill me first. Oh, did I mention she was the mother of your child?"_

Sherlock could picture it now. First, John would be confused, but then he would mourn over the dead wife he couldn't even remember. He would look at old pictures of her, especially the ones of her with Rosie when she was first born, and wish that he remembered her. He would then feel guilty all over again for cheating on his wife who then went and took a bullet for his friend before he could come clean. Sherlock wasn't sure if he would be able to take that. He wouldn't be able to handle John mourning and moping for the woman who was the cause of the scar on his chest and the worst rift in their relationship ever. Their relationship had been recovering when Sherlock came back from the dead in 2014, and their downfall had been because of her. Sleep-deprived, hungry, and shocked, Sherlock could admit to himself that he just could not _stand _the thought of Mary anymore. He was tired of her constant, looming presence in their lives that continued after her death. He wanted to build a life with John now that the worst was over, but it felt like they could never truly move on. Rosie was a constant reminder of Mary, although it wasn't her fault and he did love her. He wished John never met Mary, but Rosie still existed. He knew that was impossible. His mind wasn't working efficiently.

Sherlock was eating a muffin because he was certain that if he didn't put something solid into his stomach, he would vomit. Emotions were running wild throughout his entire body.

His phone rang in his coat pocket. He answered it with a trembling hand. "Hello?"

"Hello, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said, "how's John?"

"He's awake."

"Oh!" she squealed. "He is? How wonderful! Rosie, do you hear that? Your daddy's awake!"

"Mrs. Hudson, I wouldn't advise bringing her to see him right now."

"Why not?"

He took a deep breath. "John has amnesia. He doesn't remember the past five years of his life, including Rosie's existence."

"How awful!" she cried. "Are you serious? Sherlock, how long will it last?"

"No one knows," he sighed. "I believe it would be best to reintroduce him to aspects of his life slowly. He's already shocked."

"Of course," she said sadly. "I can't believe it. How is he otherwise?"

"The doctor said he could go home in a few days."

"I see. Well, tell him I said I hope he feels better and let me know when we should visit."

"I will. Goodbye." He hung up. This was all terrible.

* * *

After eating and spending more time sitting alone in the cafeteria to calm his jittery pulse, Sherlock intended on leaving the hospital to go home and shower, but he stopped by John's room one more time just to glance in. He was so used to John being asleep in the bed that it took him by surprise to see him awake and watching something terrible on the television on the wall.

John saw him. "Sherlock."

"Sorry, I know you want to be alone. I was just about to leave."

"No, um, it's okay. You don't have to."

Sherlock walked into the room. "Really? How are you?"

John exhaled heavily out of his nose. He was still pale and had lost some weight in the past two weeks, but he looked a tad more alert now. "Still fucking overwhelmed," he admitted. "But I've had time to think about what you said. I'm still angry with you, but, I think I understand why you did it. Still wish you hadn't done it, but. Can't change the past. Besides, I feel like it's unfair being pissed at you for something you apologized for years ago." He stopped. "You did apologize back then, right?"

"Yes," he rolled his eyes. "I thought you would be pleasantly surprised, so I was confused when you attacked me," he said with an awkward cough. "But once the severity of my actions set in, I apologized."

John's shoulders moved up and down in a quiet sigh. "I won't stop being angry or a little while, but that's because of me, not you. I need to be pissed off for awhile."

"I understand."

"Hm. Well, as for everything else, I still can't believe I've forgotten so much." He frowned. "I've gotten old-looking."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "That's what concerns you?"

"Well, sort of," he said defensively. "I got up and went to the loo and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I've got a lot more grey now."

_From stress. _"I'm sure I look different now, too."

"Not really," John squinted at him, as if trying to get a closer look at his face. "Of course you'd look the same."

Sherlock didn't know what to say to that, so he looked at the television. "Really, John?"

"There's not much else I can do in here. Besides, I slept for two weeks. I'd rather watch whatever the hell this is than sleep now."

"I see. Do you need anything before I leave?" _Please say "no", please say "no", please say "no."_

"Hm, don't think so. You should go home. You might look young still, but you look worse for wear. When's the last time you shaved? I don't think I've ever seen you with stubble."

"You have," he said.

John picked up the remote, and curse him for being left-handed, because he noticed the ring again. "Oh yeah, actually, Sherlock, what is this ring? I don't wear jewelry."

Sherlock gulped, dreading the story of Mary he would have to tell. "Surely you recognize the significance of the finger your ring is on," he mumbled, looking at the television.

John was silent.

Sherlock was silent.

The television was playing Jeremy Kyle. Sherlock hated that he knew who that was. He blamed Mrs. Hudson.

"A wedding ring," John said flatly.

"Yes."

"You're telling me I'm married."

Sherlock bit his lip. "Well…" His stomach hurt. Telling your friend that he was a widower was not a pleasant thought. Telling the love of your life he was married to someone who tried to kill you was even worse. If only Mary's entire era could be erased from their lives.

But what if...Oh, this was truly unethical. This was perhaps one of the worst thoughts ever to pop into his head, which made it more enticing. He was supposed to be better than this now. Maybe he'd just say it and see John's reaction, and if it were negative, he would immediately say he was kidding. Actually, that was the most likely outcome. There was no way John would want this, too. This was a blissful moment in which the ghost of Mary did not haunt them, and Sherlock wanted to savor these last moments. He wanted to pretend he could have John for a second. "Yes."

John huffed a breath. "God, how many heart attacks are you going to give me today? Well, who is it?"

Sherlock's heartbeat was in his ears. "Me."

All of the blood rushed to John's face. "_You _?" He looked down at the ring. He looked back at Sherlock, and then back at the ring. He put his head in his hands. "I swear, I'm going to have a heart attack," he mumbled into his palms. He lifted his head. "Is that why you're nicer than I remember?"

This...was not an explicitly negative reaction. "Yes?"

John licked his lips. "I...Really?" He swallowed audibly. "I guess this makes sense...sort of." He scratched the back of his neck, averting his gaze. "I, uh, when you were gone, I thought about how if I got a second chance with you, I'd tell you how I felt, so I guess I must've done that when you came back. I guess I grew a set of bollocks in five years, huh?"

Sherlock was now the one who felt like he was hit in the back of the head with a metal bar. How _he _felt? _Oh my god. _His mind was blank, then rapidly went into overdrive. John had feelings for him. He wasn't reacting negatively to thinking they were married. He thought the idea made _sense_. He...he wanted Sherlock? He thought about this before? Sherlock had inferred that John had romantic feelings for him before he fell, especially when Irene Adler came into their lives and he overheard their conversation at Battersea, but he thought he destroyed all of that when he hit the pavement. Apparently not. John had romantic feelings for him. He was seemingly okay with supposedly being married. This was Sherlock's greatest desire. They could start over. He could have John. They could leave their ugly past behind them forever. This was too good to be true.

"Sherlock, hello? You listening?"

Sherlock sucked in a breath. "What?"

"I guess you weren't, then," he rolled his eyes. "I was...well, you know I only remember you from 2012, so I was asking...you really want a relationship?" he asked with a self-conscious look on his face. "I can't picture you wanting any of what a marriage entails."

"I love you," he blurted out, immediately feeling heat sting his face. "I always have, John. I should have told you sooner, before I jumped, and I'm sorry."

John looked astounded for the tenth time that day. "You're actually going to give me a heart attack," he said. His heart monitor was beeping quickly. He sat there staring at him, breathing out of his parted lips.

Sherlock's legs felt shaky.

John shrugged his shoulders with a snort. "Christ, it feels like I've woken up in the Twilight Zone, but," he grinned a little, incredulous, "at least this bit is good news."

_Good news. _Sherlock couldn't tell him the truth now. If he told them they weren't really married, John would most likely feel humiliated and close himself off. He probably wouldn't believe Sherlock if he told him he truly loved him, and why should he? He just lied about a marriage, for god's sake. On top of that, John was dealing with Sherlock's lie about his death all over again. He was already vulnerable. In an instant, Sherlock let the lie get out of hand, and he couldn't crush John with the truth and have him feel lied to again. But he was lying about something gigantic. Yet, making John feel mortified over opening himself up would be excruciating-to see the hurt in his eyes, then anger, then self-loathing, Sherlock was too much of a coward to see that happen. What was he going to do?

Sherlock couldn't stay here any longer. Already, guilt was starting to prick at his veins. "I'm...I really should go, John. I promise I'll be back tomorrow."

John looked a bit disappointed, but nodded. "Okay. I think I need more time to process every fucking crazy thing you told me today, and you know, you being here, alive, again. And being my...husband." He looked dumbstruck after uttering the word, as if he couldn't believe this was happening.

Sherlock was torn between loving this and wishing he could turn back the clock and tell him about Mary.

He sunk into the pillow. "This has to be the craziest day of my life. I feel like I'm going out of my mind."

"Me too," Sherlock muttered.

John looked him over. "You need to go eat and shower. I still want to talk to you, but your well-being is more important." That was the old, caring John Sherlock had missed so much. In general, John was more open now than he had been in...well, five years.

Sherlock nodded, feeling a lump in his throat. "Bye," he choked out, and turned on his heel.

What was he _doing_? This was dangerous. This was doomed from the start. John would likely regain some of his memory, and when he did, he would certainly hate Sherlock. He would probably never forgive him for this. But John was able to forgive him for faking his death; that was much bigger, right? Sherlock thought it was. Maybe John would forgive this, too?

Sherlock climbed into a taxi with shaking legs. He needed to think. He needed to find a way to prolong this as much as possible.

Sherlock looked out the window. He had the eerie feeling that the countdown clock to the end of his relationship with John had already begun.


	2. Rolling With It

When Sherlock got in, he got Rosie from Mrs. Hudson and put her to bed since she already had her dinner and bath. He set her down in the cot he had taken from John's flat, shushing her whines. Once she was asleep, he sighed deeply and rubbed his eyes, exhausted in every way. What was he thinking? He was in a right mess now, but he had to make it work, at least as long as possible. He had to get rid of all evidence of Mary. The biggest obstacle to that was Rosie, but he supposed he could tell John they just adopted her shortly after she was born. Should he lie and say Mary was their surrogate, and they used John's sperm, so that he knew he was Rosie's biological father? Sherlock frowned. A sign of a lie was too many details. Besides, he worried that if Mary were mentioned at all, or if John saw any photos of her, that his memory would return.

But wouldn't it return eventually? Wouldn't he remember Mary, the wedding, her pregnancy, her betrayal, her giving birth, and her death sooner or later? He...he would just have to cross that bridge-or, bridges-when he came to them.

_You're an idiot,_ he told himself. _You know this won't work for long._

Sherlock imagined the look on John's face after learning that he lied about their marriage. He shook his head. If he could keep John happy as long as possible, then he would. (He was selfish. He would keep _himself _happy as long as possible, too.)

It was settled. He would tell John they decided to adopt and wanted a baby to raise from birth. He would think of the details later. Right now, he had to hack into John's blog and delete all entries and comments mentioning Mary. Sherlock sat down and did just that, and maybe felt a little spite when he deleted the sarcastic entry he had written about John's wedding. More than anything else, however, he felt wrong doing this, but he did it anyway. He was a sociopath, wasn't he? This was his true nature: lying, calculating, manipulative, and not at all the nice man John apparently thought he was married to. He deleted the last entry about Mary and then went about deleting her comments on various blog entries. Since he was logged in as John, he had the administrative ability to delete whatever comment he wanted, so Mary and any mention of her was removed from every comment section. She was wiped from John's blog.

Sherlock closed the laptop, swallowing hard. He needed to shower. That would clear his head.

* * *

Once clean, he got dressed again and left for John's flat, telling Mrs. Hudson he needed to go out for a little while. He had bit his tongue and called Mycroft for a favor: a moving truck.

"Dr. Watson is moving back in?" Mycroft asked, sounding genuinely surprised. "He must have really hit his head."

"Just shut up and have your minions help," Sherlock growled into the phone. He had panicked when he remembered he didn't live with him anymore, and almost slipped and fell when he ran out of the shower with wet feet. Surely not living together would be a red flag to John since they were supposed to be married. He would just have to act like John never moved out.

He was going mad. If (when) John found out he moved all of his things into the flat, he would put Sherlock in a straitjacket. Thankfully, John and Rosie didn't have many belongings; his military experience led him to a minimalist lifestyle, and she only had so many clothes and toys. Plus, none of the furniture in the flat, aside from Rosie's crib, changing table, and height chair needed to be moved into 221B. Even so, and with the decently sized crew Mycroft sent over, the process took all night.

Mrs. Hudson was overjoyed but puzzled when she was told John was moving back in. "So soon?" she asked.

"The last thing he remembers is living here," Sherlock told her, holding two suitcases filled with John's clothes, "so it will be more comfortable for him to be here than that flat." Well, that wasn't a lie, necessarily. It would have been disorienting for John to have gone back to the other flat to be alone with Rosie. Sherlock's excuses sounded weak even in his own head. "I apologize for asking you again, but would you take Rosie while this is happening?"

"Of course," she smiled. "I know how stressed you've been and I'm glad to help, dear."

By 7:00 the next morning, John's clothes were in Sherlock's closet, his old family photos were in a trunk under the bed, his books were on the shelves in the sitting room, and his former bedroom upstairs had been converted into Rosie's room. Sherlock secretly took John's gun and put it in the drawer in his bedside table. The crew didn't need to know about that. He took all the photos from the wedding and put them through a shredder. Fortunately, any other pictures of Mary were on John's phone, so he deleted them along with her number and old text conversations. The only trace of her left was the ring on John's finger and Rosie. Just like that, it was if she never existed. Sherlock's hand ghosted over the scar on his chest. Well, almost.

Now alone in the flat, he was lying flat on his back on his bed, eyes burning from exhaustion. He had manipulated and lied to people in the past, but he never felt so...weird about it. Why did he feel this way? He lied about being dead for god's sake. Wasn't that worse?

_It was necessary. This is not._

"Shut up," he hissed at his mind. He closed his eyes. He needed sleep before he drove himself crazy.

* * *

After Sherlock woke up in the afternoon and ate, he headed to the hospital. As conflicted as he felt about everything, he wanted to see John, and he couldn't just leave him alone in the hospital now that he was awake from his coma. He went alone, however, figuring that showing up with Rosie would not be the best decision.

John was awake and watching television when Sherlock came in. He smiled lightly. "Hello."

His heart thumped. "Hello, John. How are you?"

He shrugged. "Okay, I guess. Um, I'm still shocked about everything."

Sherlock nodded. "Understandable. How's your head?"

"Okay," he said. "I feel a little weak when I walk, but that'll probably go away in the next day or two." He did look better than yesterday. The color had returned to his face and his eyes were more alert.

"Probably," he agreed. He bit his lip. "No recovered memories?"

John shook his head. "None," he frowned.

"Oh." He sat down in the chair next to the bed, unsure of what to say or feel.

John sighed through his nose. "You look like yourself today. Did you get some rest?"

"Yes."

"Good."

The silence was heavy.

John cleared his throat. "Um." He looked at the television. The tips of his ears were turning red. "I did a lot of thinking last night. I'm still angry with you for faking your death. It still feels recent for me."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in the chair. "I'm sorry."

"I know. But I was wondering, er, about us."

"Yes?" His heart started beating faster.

He looked back at him. "You had a hard time admitting we were friends in Baskerville, but now you're married to me? How'd that leap happen?"

Fair question. Sherlock pressed his lips together, folding his hands on his lap. "I didn't realize what I had until it was gone." He remembered how much John's wedding hurt, how he went to home and cried himself to sleep. He had felt utterly hollow and alone.

John's face fell and his eyes flickered downward. "I know that feeling," he said quietly.

Sherlock wanted to reach out to him. They were "married", so he could do that now. He put his hand over John's.

John's dark sad eyes met his.

"I was...afraid to let myself feel for you before," Sherlock admitted. He had been frightened that John owning his heart heart would give him nothing but grief. In the end, wasn't he right about that? "It always came down to my own limitations, but not a lack of desire." He felt his face coloring.

"You're not afraid now?" John asked.

_Terrified_. "No."

John grinned a little. "Then why do you look like you're about to jump out of your skin?"

_Damn_. "It's been a long two weeks. I was worried about you."

John's other hand covered his. "I'm all right now. You can relax."

Sherlock breathed deeply, trying to do as he was told.

His eyes were downcast once again. "It feels weird saying it, but I must have before, so I guess I can say it now. You already did, anyway."

"You're rambling," Sherlock said, his palm sweating onto the top of John's hand. _Good going._

"Yeah," John mumbled. He lifted his gaze, a soldier's determination entering his gaze. "I love you," he said. "I was thinking about how I never got to tell you that before you jumped, so there," he said with a little nod. "It was on my mind all night."

Warmth exploded in Sherlock's chest and the breath rushed out of him. This was how John felt before he jumped, before he ruined them. Did John feel that way after he returned, even with Mary in the picture? He must have. Memory loss wouldn't create feelings that weren't there. He was loved by John Watson. Would John have ever admitted this if he hadn't gotten amnesia? Would the same John who wrote him a hate letter after Mary died be vulnerable enough to confess his love?

"Hey," John squeezed his hand, "what's with the face? I _did _tell you that before, right?"

Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat. "I missed you, John," he choked out, voice scratchy.

His face softened and he cupped Sherlock's cheek. "Listen, it's all okay now," he said softly. He licked his lips. "Well, it's not," he murmured, "my brain's still shite. But. I'm okay otherwise."

Sherlock bowed his head, hiding his flushed face. He found his voice after a couple more hard swallows. "When did you start feeling that?"

"Feeling what?"

He wanted to close his eyes and hide. "Loving me?" he asked, voice small and fragile as glass.

"Did we never talk about that?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "We didn't talk about a lot," he mumbled.

"Well, that's not hard to believe." He cleared his throat. "Erm, well, definitely by...you know, the Moriarty thing. Um, I think the Woman was when I realized it was love. Thought it was just attraction before."

Sherlock couldn't bear to look at him. "Why the Woman?"

John laughed a little. "'Cause it was hell watching someone else catch your attention like that. I thought she was the only person you could have feelings for."

His lip twitched. "Don't be ridiculous," he muttered.

"I know better now," he said with another laugh. "But, uh, yeah. I think it was then when I thought you'd go off with someone else."

Sherlock knew that terrible feeling all too well, only worse, because John actually did go off with Mary and marry her. No, don't think of her.

John squeezed his hand. "Well, what about you?"

Sherlock lifted his head. "Hm?"

John's face was flushed, too, but the tension in his shoulders was slowly melting away and he appeared to be warming up to this situation. "When'd you know?"

Sherlock gnawed at the inside of his cheek. _Your wedding_. "It's hard to say since I was in denial for a long time." That wasn't a lie. He knew he had romantic feelings for John since early in their relationship, but he kept denying the extent until he watched John dance with Mary at the reception, and he was more alone than he had ever been in a crowded room. "I didn't think you would return my sentiment, especially after Moriarty."

John frowned a little. "I may have been, and still kinda am still pissed at you for that, but," he snorted, smiling shyly (a shy smile from John? Sherlock was fascinated by the sight), "I guess I can't stay away from you."

It hurt. Sherlock couldn't help but remember after Mary died-no, no, stop it. That reality is gone now.

"You've got to get that frown off your face," John said, removing his hand from under Sherlock's and gently grasping his chin. "I don't like seeing you this bothered."

"Sorry," Sherlock said, suppressing a shiver at the warm pressure from John's strong hand on his face.

John licked his lips. "Hey, I know it might be weird to ask, but...can I kiss you?"

Sherlock could only gape and nod dumbly.

John pressed his mouth against his. It was warm. His lips were a bit chapped, but that was fine. It was gentle, but John applied more pressure, inhaling audibly through his nose and deepening the kiss. Sherlock was kissing back, at least he thought he was. He was never very good at this. The last kiss he had was-oh god, with Janine. This was definitely better. Infinitely better. He was finally kissing John, and now that it was happening, he didn't want it to stop.

John did pull back, though, his warm eyes hazy. He grinned. "There. The frown's gone now," he breathed.

Sherlock had no idea what his face looked like, but he felt winded yet on top of the world. He wanted to kiss again. He wanted to hug him. He could ask for these things now, right? "More," he tugged at John's hand that was still on his chin.

John placed a hard but brief kiss on his lips. "I don't wanna do too much," he said. "Don't want to get too heated, y'know?"

Sherlock was sure his face couldn't get any warmer. "A-are? Are you-?"

John rolled his eyes. "I don't get riled up that easily. I'm just saying. Besides, it's still new to me. Not bad at all, but new."

_Me too. _"I see."

John scratched the back of his neck, growing bashful again. "So, about that. I had wondered if you, erm, do any of that. Sex."

Sherlock was going to burst into flames. He sat up straight, heart pounding. He blinked rapidly.

"Why d'you look like a blushing virgin?" John asked.

_Oh god oh god. _"I'm not very, um, I mean we don't exactly talk about it like this."

"Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"Perhaps a little overwhelmed," he admitted, embarrassed. He was forty and he couldn't talk about sex with the man he loved.

"Oh, sorry," he winced. "We don't have to talk about it, then, not now. I was just wondering."

"It's all right," he waved a hand, crossing a leg over his knee. Sherlock was glad John was understanding. It wasn't that he _didn't _want to have sex with John, but there was only so much change he could handle in one day. They would talk about it later. John would want to do it eventually. Sherlock had to stop this train of thought right now because it didn't take much for him to become aroused when it came to John.

John leaned back on the pillow, looking him up and down. "This is still so surreal to me. It's like I woke up in a different reality." He sighed a little. "I guess it's weird for you, too, right?"

"Yes, but I'm glad you're okay."

"They can't kill me that easily," he said, sounding hollow as a furrow formed in between his eyebrows.

"John?"

He looked at the television and sniffed. "Did you think of me, while you were gone?"

The warmth in his chest from John's kiss dripped away. "Of course I did." Did John have these thoughts when he returned in 2014? Sherlock hesitated, then put his hand on his shoulder. "It wasn't as if I forgot you and went on holiday, John."

"I know," he looked back at him. "I wasn't trying to imply that. Just nice to hear."

Sherlock pressed his lips together. "I always thought of you."

He smiled weakly. "And I always thought of you."

"Sorry," he said, even though he said it before. There was too much guilt clawing at his chest.

"I know you are." His eyes flickered down to his hand on his shoulder. "Hm. I still feel fucking weird, but this is nice."

Sherlock bit back an _Is it?_, because he was supposed to know John loved him and wanted to touch him already. He stroked his thumb over John's shoulder, watching his face to see his reaction.

John was smiling, but his brow quirked upwards in curiosity. "Why don't you wear a ring?"

"A ring on me would wind up lost inside a corpse."

"Ah, gotcha."

Sherlock took his hand away.

Just then, John's doctor came in with a smile. "Knock, knock," she said obnoxiously (well, Sherlock thought it was obnoxious).

"Hello," John said politely.

Sherlock said nothing.

"How are you today, Doctor Watson?"

"I'm all right," he shrugged. "Can't remember a thing, but I'm in no pain."

"None at all?"

"Nope."

"Any weakness?"

"A little in my legs, but I can stand and walk around for a little. I'm not very steady, but better than yesterday."

"Let me see."

John got up and walked to the doctor, and then they engaged in further conversation as Sherlock retreated into his own head. The past several minutes with John were _good_. Better than any time together in recent memory. He didn't know he would enjoy kissing so much, but he should have. Of course kissing John would be pleasurable, and he got to do it whenever he wanted now-as long as John believed they were married. Damn it, his mind couldn't stop going back to the ugly truth. He knew it would come out sooner or later, but he decided he couldn't tell John without devastating him, so he would ride with it as long as possible. If that were the case, then he should try to enjoy their relationship to the fullest until its end. He could commit what a relationship with John was like to memory before it was gone.

"Is he okay?"

"Oh, he does that sometimes."

Sherlock blinked. "What?"

"There you are," John said, now sitting on the edge of the bed. "Mind Palace again? Anyway, while you were gone Doctor Atkinson said I can go home."

"Really?" he looked up at her.

"Yes, I think it should be fine," she said. "Unfortunately, there's nothing more we can do here to help his amnesia, and aside from muscle weakness, he's in perfect physical condition. He just needs to exercise to get his strength back and combat potential muscle atrophy, but I think he'll do that better outside of here."

"Definitely," John agreed.

"So you can bring him home this afternoon."

"Excellent," Sherlock said, and it was, but he was nervous about going back home with him. It had been a long time since they lived together, and they never did so with a baby. Damn, he would have to tell John about Rosie. He should do it here so he could brace himself before they got home.

"Um, John," he said softly, tugging on the sleeve of his hospital gown once the doctor left the room.

"Yeah?" he asked with a smile, in good spirits.

"There's something important I haven't told you."

The smile instantly dropped. "What?"

Just seeing a glimmer of fear enter John's eyes made Sherlock want to conceal the truth about the entire situation even more. "We're not living alone."

"You mean, there's someone else besides Mrs. Hudson?"

He nodded.

"Who?" he asked. "We've always been private people."

Sherlock folded his hands atop his lap, digging his nails into his skin. "We have a baby."

John's jaw dropped. "We have a fucking _what_?"


	3. Going Home

"I can't believe it," John said for the fourth time since leaving the hospital room. "It was hard enough picturing you wanting to be married, but a father?"

Sherlock was looking out the window of the cab. It was easier to look at John through the glass' reflection so he could hide his own expression. "It wasn't anything I had ever thought about, but when you brought the prospect into our lives, I wasn't adverse." That was truthful. He never thought he would be a father, ever, but as soon as Mary became pregnant with John's child, he knew he would have to protect her, plain and simple. That was just that.

"I just hope you don't experiment on her," John said, putting his hand over his eyes.

Sherlock whipped his head around. "I would never do such a thing to Rosie." Honestly! The nerve!

John lowered his hand and glared at him. "You experimented on _me_. I certainly remember that bit."

"You're an adult; she's a baby. I would never put a child in harm's way."

John sighed. "Yeah, okay, sorry for making assumptions, I guess." He licked his lips. "Am I a good father?"

_Not the best_. "You try hard."

He sunk back into the seat. "That's a 'no.'"

"No," Sherlock denied. "You found it harder than anticipated. We both did. But we both try."

John didn't look very convinced. "I just don't know why I'd want to adopt a baby. Did I really change that much in five years?"

"Why are you so surprised?" Sherlock asked. "You always wanted a family." John never explicitly told him this, but he deduced it.

"Yeah, eventually, but my dreams were having a child with a woman. Ah, no," John reached out and put a hand on his knee, "don't look like that. I didn't mean it that way. I just meant that I'd think my life goals would have changed once we got together, not just because of the type of person you are, but because of our work. Is Mrs. Hudson really okay with watching her while we're gone? She's not as young as she used to be."

"Mrs. Hudson is perfectly capable," Sherlock said. "She has assured us that it's more than fine." That was true, because in a relationship or not, John still needed a babysitter for Rosie when on cases and they'd had to have that conversation.

John smoothed out his wrinkled jumper, wearing the clothes he had been admitted into the hospital in. "I don't know how I'm going to react to seeing her. I'm, I'm almost nervous."

"You'll be fine," Sherlock reassured him, lowering his voice a little. "She loves you. She'll be happy to see you."

A flash of emotion entered John's eyes, and he nodded and looked out the window. Sherlock thought he was getting choked up, but why? He didn't get it, but he didn't get most things about children. He loved Rosie, but he had absolutely no idea what he was doing with her. He was nervous about going home, too, and having John see her again. Would his memories return?

They were silent until they got home. This was the first time John called 221B "home" in years. Despite himself, Sherlock enjoyed this.

"Do you want me to get her?" Sherlock asked. "You can go upstairs and settle in."

John nodded. "Yeah, okay."

When Mrs. Hudson opened the door, Sherlock slithered inside right away and shut the door behind him. "Mrs. Hudson, listen. John still has no memory of the past five years, and he thinks he and I are married." Lying to her made him feel strange.

"Married?!" she gasped.

"Shh!" Sherlock hissed.

She was shocked. "How hard did he hit his head? For him to think you're married-I never thought that would cross his mind."

Sherlock swallowed. He didn't find her tone very favorable. "Well, why not?" he asked defensively. "Why is it hard to believe he'd think that?"

"Well, he was so torn up over Mary, and you're the complete opposite from her in every way. Quite a change, really."

Sherlock clenched his jaw tightly. "Where's Rosie?" he asked lowly.

"One second," she spun on her heel and walked into another room in the flat.

Sherlock took a deep breath. He wouldn't grow angry with her. He wouldn't cause a scene. He couldn't risk John hearing them talk about Mary.

Mrs. Hudson emerged with Rosie in her arms, looking contrite. "Here she is," she handed her to him. "Sherlock," she said quietly, "I thought you two _were _together before you faked your death. When he married Mary, I thought I was wrong about what he wanted, but I could have been wrong about that, too. I hope you didn't take things the wrong way."

Sherlock just shook his head, biting his tongue. "Not at all. Just let John think what he wants and let his memory come back organically, yes?"

"Of course," she said, frowning. "I'm down here if you need me."

Sherlock carried a squirming Rosie up to the flat.

John was sitting in his chair, and his eyebrows rose up to his hairline when he saw her.

Rosie's eyes landed on him. "Da!" she exclaimed, kicking her feet. "Da da da da da da!"

"O-oh," John stammered. "That's her?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, walking over to him. "No, John, I picked this baby up off the street."

John glared at him. "Not in the mood, Sherlock."

"Da," she reached out her arms.

John took her and set her on his lap, staring at her with wide eyes. "My god. We have a baby."

Sherlock took off his coat and sat down in his chair. "We do."

Rosie whined and tugged on his jumper.

"What is it?" he asked her.

"She hasn't seen you in two weeks, John," Sherlock reminded him. "For a child, that's a long time."

"Oh, yeah, yeah, right." He cautiously hugged her to his chest. "Erm, it's all right, I'm back."

Rosie hugged around his neck, and John gave Sherlock a lost expression.

Sherlock wondered if he had been like this the first time he held Rosie. He had stayed out of the delivery room, obviously, so he didn't see John's initial reaction to her. "Just relax," Sherlock told him. "You'll adjust. She can't understand much of what we're saying now, so you can still verbally express your shock and mixed emotions."

That made John snort. "What a comfort." He rubbed her back. "She's one, you said?"

"Yes."

He sighed heavily. "I don't remember a year of her life."

"She cried and defecated a lot." He may not have been there all the time, but she was over the flat enough for him to know that was true.

John rolled his eyes. "I suspected that much." He pulled her back so he could look at her again. "Huh, it's almost like she has my nose."

Sherlock kept calm. "Don't most babies have a button nose?"

John looked up at him, amused. "You think I have a button nose?"

Sherlock crossed his leg over his knee. "No, your nose is too big for that."

"Oi!"

"I'm kidding," he smiled lightly.

"You better be," he said, but there was no venom to it. He looked at her again, brushing wispy blonde hair away from her face. "So, what does she like to do?"

"At this time of day, she likes to watch cartoons while playing with her toys, but it seems like she wants to be close to you now."

She was clinging to John, uncharacteristically quiet.

"Just sit with her for a bit," Sherlock said. "She might nap on you."

"Okay," John said, and held her so that her head was on his shoulder. "Her room is upstairs, you said?"

"Yes. Everything is set up for her." _As of last night._

"Good. So, uh, you got any pictures of her? Do I have any on my phone?"

"Pictures?"

"From when we first got her?"

"Oh, right." Sherlock did have pictures of Rosie on his phone from her birth up until now. Due to his own preferences, all of them were either of her alone, or with John, so he didn't have to delete any with Mary. There was no way he would have anything Mary-related on his phone. He gave John his phone and opened up Rosie's photo album.  
"You have a whole album on your phone dedicated to her?" he asked with a grin.

"Of course," he crossed his arms over his chest. "Why wouldn't I?"

"No reason at all," John said absentmindedly, taking the phone with his free hand focusing on each picture.

Rosie was rubbing her eye.

"Is she normally this calm?" John asked.

"No," Sherlock said with a smile. "She's rather lively, but I don't think she's been sleeping well with you gone."

"Sorry, Rosie," John said. He was then quiet for a couple minutes as he looked at the pictures, and Sherlock let him be. This felt somewhat normal; Sherlock was used to there being some tension between them, only to be lessened by Rosie's presence.

"Why aren't you in any of these?" John asked.

"I took the pictures," he said.

"No selfies with Rosie?"

Sherlock scrunched his nose. "A what?"

John chuckled. "Nothing. I never saw you take any pictures of yourself, so I guess it makes sense. I'll have to take some pictures of you with her."

"If you want."

John gave the phone back. "Pictures aren't the same as memories, but it's better than nothing."

"No memories of her at all, even after seeing her and old pictures?"

He shook his head mutely.

"I see." Sherlock put the phone in his pocket. He should have been sadder for John than he was.

John looked down at her with a sigh. "Well, she's asleep. Parental bonding will have to be later, I guess."

"How do you feel about all of this?" Sherlock asked.

John shook his head again. "Bloody overwhelmed. But, I'll just have to get used to it, along with everything else. It's like I'm in an alternate reality, truly."

"A good reality?" he found himself asking hesitantly. He mentally scolded himself for seeking reassurance like a teenager, especially when he knew the world he created for John after he awoke would turn into a nightmare once everything was revealed.

John cleared his throat, but he had a little smile on his face. "Yeah, I'd say so."

Sherlock fought back a twinge of guilt in his chest.

"I feel bad that I made her upset by being away."

"You didn't mean to get smacked in the head."

"No, but," he squinted, "something like this was bound to happen. Our line of work is dangerous. We have, or had, to travel sometimes. I just, I don't know, didn't we think this through?"

"I think everything through," Sherlock said. "We don't take cases that require us to travel far anymore. As for the danger, well, you're here now. It won't be that bad in the long run."

"I guess," John said slowly. "Wouldn't it have been easier to adopt an older child, one that requires less maintenance?"

"We wanted to raise a child from as early in their life as possible. She'll grow up thinking we're her fathers. It would have been more difficult to get an older child to get used to us, but we're everything she's ever known."

John hummed thoughtfully. "Yeah, I guess we are."

Considering how young she was when Mary was killed, Rosie couldn't remember her, so Sherlock and John (and Mrs. Hudson) really were the only parental figures she ever knew. Sherlock had a feeling that his time with her, too, was numbered.

* * *

The rest of the day was quiet. John wanted to focus on Rosie once she woke up, so Sherlock told him all of her favorite toys, games, foods, and television shows. John listened intently and fed her and played with her all day-or, he attempted to play with her. He was still a bit lost, but he was trying, and Sherlock admired him for that. Suddenly being told you had a child and going to meet her that day was a lot to deal with, but John was rising up to the occasion. Sherlock knew he would.

While John was occupied with Rosie, Sherlock sent text messages to Lestrade and Molly, telling them that John's memory was gone and he thought they were married. They were just as shocked as Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock normally had no problem lying to them, and he was feeling less uncomfortable this time around than when he told Mrs. Hudson, until Lestrade texted, _I guess you're happy!_

What do you mean? Sherlock had texted back.

_I know you've fancied him for years. I'm still a detective you know._

Sherlock felt the blood rush to his face. This conversation is over. Just play along until his memory returns.

* * *

That night, John bathed Rosie and put her to bed, insisting on performing both tasks so he could spend time with her. When he came out with his jumper soaked, he huffed. "You didn't mention she doesn't like baths," he muttered.

"Must have slipped my mind," Sherlock said, but the truth was he hadn't known, he had never bathed Rosie before.

John came back downstairs after setting her down, frowning down at his shirt. "Well, I was gonna shower anyway."

Then, it hit him that they were about to share a bed. Sherlock's pulse quickened. He never shared a bed with anyone before, and he didn't think being passed out in the same jail cell while drunk counted as sharing a room, either. He was...excited? Was that this feeling? He put a hand over his chest. He liked the idea of sharing a bed with John, but he was nervous, too. Would John want sex tonight? Would he want more kissing? Would they just sleep? Sherlock didn't know which one he wanted. He wanted to have sex with John at some point, but he truly had no clue what to do and wasn't sure if he would be able to handle it tonight. He was exhausted mentally and physically from the past two days. It was just last night that he moved everything from John's flat to here, even though it felt like a week ago. God, he was going mad.

A whistle made him turn around.

John was standing in his pajamas. "How long are you gonna stand there?"

Sherlock shook his head with a blink. "Sorry, lost in thought," he muttered.

John yawned, scratching the back of his neck. "Mmm. God, it feels good having a shower after two bloody weeks."

"I'll bet. So, you found everything all right in the bedroom?"

"Er, yeah," John coughed lightly. "Everything's organized. I didn't touch your sock index, I promise."

Sherlock said nothing and went into his-_their_ room and grabbed his own pair of pajamas, his chest bubbling with anticipation. _Grow up, it's merely sharing a bed._ He walked past John and went into the loo, closing the door. He let out a deep breath. He was making too much of this. Adult men were not supposed to be this affected by the idea of sleeping in bed with someone else. But, if they did more than sleep…

Sherlock inhaled sharply when he realized he was growing hard as he washed himself. He turned the shower water cold and bit back a yelp. He didn't want to show up in the bedroom with an erection. He was humiliated just thinking about it: _Hello, John, we've never done anything more than kiss but here I am, erect and ready for bed!_

He was definitely losing his mind. Thankfully, he became flaccid again and he finished his shower as quickly as possible.

Sherlock entered the bedroom and saw John sitting in the bed under the covers. He shut the door behind him, swallowing. "All right?"

"Yeah. Just, um, looking around. I was never-back then, I was never in here too much."

Sherlock walked to the other side of the bed, his bare feet padding softly on the carpet, but he didn't get in bed. "No, you weren't."

John's hair was highlighted in the lamplight, his grey T-shirt stretched across his chest. He still looked tired from being in the hospital, but his cheeks had a healthy flush. He looked handsome, and Sherlock pressed his lips together before realizing what he was doing and reverting to a neutral expression.

John raised an eyebrow with a little smirk. "You gonna lie down?"

Sherlock got into bed, heartbeat in his ears.

John lay down on his side. "I'm not really tired."

Sherlock turned on his side and their knees bumped in the process. "Sorry," he straightened his legs out.

"Bloody gazelle legs," John shifted and pulled the blankets up more. He gave a small laugh, wearing a disbelieving expression. "Sharing a bed with Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes? What about it?"

"Dunno. Just didn't think I ever would."

"There was a time when I thought I would never share a bed with you."

"I always imagined you talk in your sleep, is that true?"

"What?" his head shot up off the pillow. "No! What gave you that idea?"

"I thought you wouldn't shut up, even in sleep," he laughed.

He put his head back on the pillow. "Am I that annoying?"

"Kinda, but," he put his hand on his cheek, "in a good way. Most of the time."

He didn't say anything, enjoying John's warm palm on his skin. The bed was soft and warm and John was close. Sherlock wanted to kiss him. "And yet, here you are," he said, voice low in his chest.

"Here I am," he mused. John licked his lips. "Is this your 'kiss me' face?" he asked, voice turning husky.

"My what?"

"You looked like this in the hospital, too. Your eyes get all glazed and you stare at me, but it's not your usual deductive stare. It's, softer, I think."

Did John notice this before he got amnesia? "I...I suppose so." He was getting red.

John bit back a smirk. "Never pegged you for a blusher."

Sherlock's mouth was dry. "That's not a real word."

"But you know what I mean," John whispered, running his thumb over a warm cheekbone. He leaned in and closed the distance between them.

Sherlock's toes curled and he knew he had never been this warm before. It felt like he was in a cocoon on blankets with John, their shared body heat radiating between them. John's lips were warm, and when he parted them and coaxed Sherlock's mouth open, he tasted of mint toothpaste. His movements were slow, but firm. He was kissing Sherlock to be languid, but not gentle. In between caresses, he sucked and nibbled on Sherlock's lower lip. John moved his hand from his cheek and wrapped his arm around his waist.

Sherlock put his hand on John's chest, fingers clenching the soft fabric of his grey T-shirt. This was heavenly. He never felt like this before. He had loved John for years, but never felt this level of _safety _around him. It was stupid, but he felt like for a few minutes, nothing could go wrong. This was why he was doing this. He knew having John would make his heart soar.

When they pulled back for air, John's eyes were dark in the lamplight, his lips red. He smiled softly. "Let's get some sleep, okay?"

No sex tonight, then. Sherlock was on cloud nine from that snogging session, anyway, so he was okay with that. He nodded. "Yeah," his voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat. "Yes, I know you were in bed for a good while, but you still need rest."

"I know, I'm a doctor. You need sleep, too. You look better than before, but you've still got dark circles under your eyes."

"Well turn off the lamp, then. Please," he added.

John did. "Uh, by the way, do we-touch each other in our sleep?" he asked in the dark.

"What?" Sherlock felt his blush deepen.

"I mean-! Ugh, I don't know a bloody adult-sounding word for it. Spoon?"

"Oh," he said softly. As embarrassing as this was, he wasn't going to miss an opportunity to be held by John. "Yes. I'm taller, but you usually…" He thought about what he would like. "You usually hug me from behind."

"So you're the little spoon."

"If you must use that terminology, yes." He was glad it was too dark for John to see his expression well.

He cleared his throat. "All right. Spin around, then."

Sherlock did, heart fluttering in anticipation as he resettled on the mattress. He then felt John's arm wrap around his middle and his chest press against his back. Warm breath fanned over his neck, and he fought back a shiver. John nuzzled his nose into Sherlock's curls and kissed the shell of his ear.

"Sorry," John whispered. "It's just, in my mind...I missed you."

Sherlock closed his eyes, willing the negative thoughts away. "No need to be sorry," he whispered back.

He sighed quietly, breath tickling Sherlock's ear. "I wish we'd gotten together earlier, so I'd remember more of us."

"I wish we'd gotten together earlier, as well. Trust me."

His arm tightened around his waist. "Well, we're here now. Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

As tired as he was, he stayed awake until he felt John's muscles relax against him and his breathing grow heavy. He could feel the slow movements of John's chest against his back. It was soothing. Despite the thoughts threatening to rear their ugly head, exhaustion washed over him.


	4. Married Life

There was shifting behind him, rousing Sherlock out of a deep sleep. His limbs were warm and heavy and two weeks of little sleep were tugging him back into slumber. But he couldn't brush off the feeling of the mattress dipping behind him. He rolled over on his back with a tired, confused groan, eyes still closed. Then, a hand was in his hair, brushing curls from his forehead. What? _Oh, that's right. John._ His half-asleep brain forgot, but his heart sped up. He shared a bed with him last night. His hair was being petted right now. He liked this. This was nice. This was the kind of stuff he used to dream about. He turned his face on the pillow, still half-asleep and torn between getting himself up and lounging here longer. He sniffed, letting out a small, tired moan. Then, the fingers left his hair and knuckles brushed against his cheek.

"John?" he rasped, his eyes fluttering open.

John was lying next to him, but dressed in jeans and a jumper on top of the covers. He pulled his hand back, his face coloring slightly. "Hey," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Um, sorry, didn't mean to wake you."

Sherlock swallowed. He was completely unaccustomed to being coddled like this, and it made him feel a bit shy. "It's okay," he mumbled. "What you were doing, it was nice."

"Really?"

"Mmm." He averted his gaze to the clock on the bedside table. "Near noon already?" he asked.

"Yeah, I got up hours ago with Rosie. You slept right through her crying on the baby monitor."

"Oh," Sherlock sat up, rubbing his eye, "sorry."

"It's all right, I'm an early riser anyway, but I guess you knew that. I wanted to spend more time with her, too. Just don't think I'm going to get up every morning."

"I won't. Where is she now?"

"Napping in the sitting room. I took her out and did the shopping since we were almost out of food, so she's tired. Don't think I'm always going to do the shopping, either."

Sherlock nodded silently. So this was what it was like waking up in bed with John-physical affection and hushed voices. His chest was warm. He looked at John and saw that he slept well, to his relief. "Feeling better today?" he asked.

"Yeah, I feel all right. You look a bit better and," he snorted, "you've got a bedhead."

Sherlock pouted and tried smoothing down his hair.

"Do you have to fix it? It's funny that way."

"Yes," Sherlock grumbled.

"It's cute that way," John amended.

Sherlock lowered his hands. "Really?" He was surprised at how affectionate John was being this morning since they only got together two days ago.

"Yeah," he smiled.

Sherlock didn't know what to do with this information. It made him feel good, but he didn't know how to respond. He had to stop reacting to these things like it was his first time experiencing them. John would notice sooner or later.

"Too much?" John asked with a wince.

Even though he was more open than before his amnesia, he was still the same old John.

"No, no, not at all."

He sighed, sitting up. "I just don't know what's normal for us yet. This is still surreal."

"I understand. For clarity, there's little you could do that would be unappealing," he said with his eyes down and focused on the duvet. He wanted everything John would give him. After years of loneliness, he was starving for affection.

"Yeah?" He paused. He shook his head. "I guess, back in 2012, I didn't think you'd like relationship-type stuff. You seemed to hate it all, so I'm surprised."

"Relationship-type stuff?" he asked, looking up.

"Yeah, you know, kissing, sharing a bed, _spooning_...sex."

Sherlock hoped his face didn't look as red as it felt.

Before he could respond, John said, "But it was an act, wasn't it? A wall."

Sherlock blinked, surprised and feeling exposed. "Well...yes," he admitted slowly. He supposed he should talk about this. Maybe John would keep this in mind and be less angry when the truth came out. (What a deluded thought.) He folded his hands on top of his lap nervously. "I did think it was all stupid and pointless before you, and even after we met but before we got together. I, resented romance, because I couldn't have it with you." It was hard to tell him this, to tear down the wall and have his heart beating on the bed between them. "I resented what I felt, specifically. However, you made me want all that, no matter how hard I tried to suppress it."

John's face softened and a small furrow appeared between his eyebrows. He put his hand on top of Sherlock's. "Sorry for ever calling you a machine," he said sadly.

If only he knew how sociopathic he really was. The warmth in his chest from earlier was fading.

"I think I know how you feel," John continued. "I've always wanted to be in a relationship, but this is still difficult for me. Expressing bloody emotions and shit. I guess I put up a wall, too."

"You're doing just fine," Sherlock told him honestly. "Take things at your own pace."

John's compassionate expression turned sad. "I'm trying to adjust. I thought you hated it all so much that, well," he cleared his throat, "you'd laugh at me if I tried anything with you. Back then."

Sherlock had no idea he'd felt that way. "John, I would have never laughed at you," he said, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. Was he truly that cold years ago? Was John that insecure? Perhaps it was a combination of both. He tried to shut off his feelings so much back then, but he didn't know he was hurting John in the process. He imagined John pining for him while he was more or less oblivious, sneering at love and emotionally manipulating people at the drop of a hat for the Work. Coldness seeped into his stomach.

John was skeptical. "If, one day, I'd gone up to you and kissed you, how would you have reacted?"

Sherlock thought about it. He would have been confused and afraid. He wasn't ready back then. "Did you want to do that?" he evaded the question.

"Yeah," he said quietly, voice a little strained. "I did."

And when Sherlock did return from the dead, John married someone else. He broke John's heart. He _ruined_ them. If he had known, if he hadn't jumped…

"I wouldn't have known what to do," he finally answered, feeling empty. "But I would have never laughed. I never intended to hurt you."

John's frown grew deeper. "I know now, but...I'm still in the mindset that you just came back from the dead, so that's making things hard, too. I'm really glad you're here, but I'm torn between wanting to kiss you and punch you in the face."

Sherlock's hands were sweating beneath John's. He knew he would regret 2012 for the rest of his life. He would never live it down, and he realized he didn't deserve to. "I prefer kissing," he joked weakly, a painful weight in his chest.

John's shoulders sagged. "I had a dream you were gone last night. I was beyond relieved to wake up with you there, but…" his voice trailed off.

Sherlock ached to make him feel better. Words failed him, but he remembered when he embraced John in the sitting room when he was crying over Mary. That seemed to have worked somewhat. He shifted closer, leaned forward, and wrapped his arms around John's back, head on his shoulder. John tensed for a split second, but then his muscles relaxed and he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders. This was the first time they were actually full-on hugging each other, not counting their one-armed embrace in bed last night, and it was infinitely better than their previous one-sided ones. John was so warm against him. Sherlock's heart was swelling. He closed his eyes, forcing the lump away from his throat. He buried his face into the warm crook of John's neck, clutching onto him. He breathed in John's scent deeply, each beat of his heart heavier than the last. He loved him dearly, and he never knew just how much he botched things up. He was a worse person than he thought. If only he hadn't been an idiot, if only he had been _normal_ and able to return John's sentiment years ago.

John's arms tightened around him. "What am I gonna do with you?" he whispered. "You drive me mad." He sniffed. "Don't leave me again."

Sherlock had to tense his muscles so he didn't shiver in John's arms. "If I ever leave, it will be because you want me to," he said woodenly.

John pulled back, a troubled frown on his face. "That...sounds ominous."

Sherlock masked his expression as best he could. "I'm only saying I won't willingly leave you again."

John's eyes went over his face as if he were trying to deduce him. After a few seconds, the concern in his eyes dissipated. "All right. Good." He licked his lips, arms wrapping around Sherlock's neck. "I really wanna kiss you now," he said in a husky voice.

"Why don't you?" he managed to ask without his voice shaking.

"'Cause you just woke up and probably got morning breath," he said with a small snicker.

Ah. Right. That would be unhygienic. "Of course," he said, immediately breaking their hug and the thick tension in the air, getting up, and going to the loo. He caught a glimpse of how red his face was in the mirror as he brushed his teeth. He couldn't help it. Opening up to John was still hard, as much as he loved him. But, he owed John the truth about his feelings, since it was the only truth he was going to get for some time.

When he left the loo, John was locking the bedroom door. "In case Mrs. Hudson decides to barge in," he explained.

Sherlock nodded. He definitely didn't want her to see them being intimate, especially since she knew the truth.

John stood in front of him and tugged lightly at his hip. "Now then." He craned his neck upwards and kissed Sherlock, cupping the side of his neck. This was the first time they were kissing while standing, and Sherlock realized just how short John was. He found it very endearing. He didn't know what to do with his hands, so he placed them on John's hips.

"You taste good," John breathed against his lips.

"Mint," he said dumbly, because one word was all his brain was capable of producing.

John gently licked his way past the seam of his lips into his mouth. Sherlock was vaguely aware of the surprised moan he emitted when John's tongue touched his. It was hotter and wetter than he had anticipated, making him tighten his grasp of John's hips. But just as soon as he felt it, John's tongue was gone, sliding out of his mouth, and they were back to lip-to-lip contact. Sherlock had no problem with just kissing on the lips, none at all, and he tried deepening the kiss by applying more pressure. It seemed to work, since the hand on the side of his neck tightened ever so slightly.

John pulled back with tender, glassy eyes, his features radiating with fondness. Sherlock felt unworthy but grateful for receiving such a look. He could only gaze back, helpless against the vice John had over his heart. He wanted to take John back to bed and climb on top of him, be enveloped by his strong arms as they kissed until dark. Now that he had a taste of what it was like having John Watson, he was addicted. He was doomed.

John's lips twitched down into a frown. "What's with the face?" he murmured, cupping both of Sherlock's cheeks with his hands. "You look troubled."

He swallowed hard, imprinting the sensation of John's palms on his face to his brain. Why couldn't they have done this sooner? Why did he have to be with John like this?

"Come back," John said. "I see the look in your eyes. You're not fully here with me. What went wrong?"

Sherlock breathes deeply a couple times to ensure his voice would not crack. "I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed." No, that was wrong. He was supposed to be used to kissing John.

"Why—?"

The sound of Rosie crying startled them both so much that they jumped away from each other.

"Awake already?" John grumbled. "Look, come sit with me while I feed Rosie. I think," he cleared his throat, "we both need to be close right now."

* * *

Sherlock stayed by John's side for the rest of the day. Watching him care for Rosie put him in a tentative peaceful mood. In the early evening, Rosie held up her arms and whined, wanting to be held. Sherlock picked her up and hugged her, cradling her head in his hand. He let out a deep exhale. At least she was too young to judge him.

"You look natural with her," John commented. "Oh!" He got his phone and snapped a picture of them.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Really, John?"

"There were no photos of you two. It'll be my lock screen."

Mary and Rosie had been his old one. Sherlock held her closer.

"Lestrade texted me," John said, sitting down in his armchair.

"Oh?" he kept his tone neutral.

"Yeah, just asking how I am. He said you nearly killed the fucker who hit me, so thanks for that."

"John," he scolded, "don't use such language in front of Rosie."

John gave him the most annoyed look in the world. "Sherlock. She's one. Are you seriously a secret mother hen?"

He huffed with indignation. "She's acquiring language already. She already knows her first word. Listen." He held her back so she could look at him. "Rosie," he called gently, "who am I? What's my name?"

She gave a toothless smile. "Shuh-rah," she replied.

He smiled back at her. "Very good. See?"

John was wearing a confused grin. "Yeah, but, she calls you by your name? Not 'dad' or 'papa'?"

It was dawning upon him just how observant John was. "She already calls you 'dad' and we didn't know what she would call me, but then she picked up my name on her own." How he said that with a straight face without faltering, he'd never know.

"Do you want her to call you something else? Like 'papa'?"

Sherlock had never pictured himself becoming a father so associating that term with him was odd. He didn't know if he liked it. "I don't know. She seems to have a fine grasp on my name, which brings me back to my original point. Don't swear in front of her."

"I'll say whatever the fuck I want until she starts repeating things, deal?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes hard. "Ugh, you brute."

"There's worse things she could be exposed to, like body parts?"

"I have none in the flat."

"Is that because I was in the hospital and you didn't have time to experiment?"

Sherlock deflated.

"I thought so," John said smugly.

Sherlock glared at him. "Come on, Rosie, I'll watch the telly with you."

* * *

Sherlock was relieved when it was time to put Rosie to bed. That was the last time he volunteered to watch children's programs. His brain felt more damaged by _Peppa_ _Pig_ than cocaine.

He was drying his hair with a towel after his shower when John came downstairs and into the bedroom.

"What?" he asked. "You look like you want to say something."

John's brow was furrowed, but he didn't necessarily look distressed. "When I was going through her pajamas, I saw this pink bunny onesie. I—I think I remember her wearing it before."

Sherlock almost dropped the towel, his pulse instantly turning into a jackhammer in his neck. "Oh?"

"Yeah. She was younger, not much hair yet. I," he squinted, "I was holding her outside?"

"Do you remember anything else?" Sherlock asked urgently.

John shook his head. "No, but it's a start, yeah?"

Sherlock put immense effort into disguising the disappointment in his reply. "Yes, it's certainly a start."

John shook his head again, like he was snapping out of a dream. "Well, I guess more will come later. You're going to bed already? No staying up until 4 doing god-knows what until I find you passed out over the kitchen table, and put a blanket over you?"

John had done that in the past? He thought it was Mrs. Hudson. "I have no body parts or cases."

"What a shame," John joked. "Don't worry, Lestrade will probably come by with a new case soon."

"I hope so."

John scratched the back of his neck. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?" he tossed the towel into the laundry basket in the corner of the room, bracing himself for whatever question was about to be thrown at him.

"What...What do you like to do—in bed?"

Heat engulfed him. This was better than a question about the past, but not by much. Before they were together, John had an unnecessary interest in his sex life—_Oh_. John was interested because he was _attracted _to Sherlock. How did he not put that together eventually? John wasn't being invasive just to be annoying and boring, as he had thought. He had personal interest in Sherlock's sex life. Dear god, he was a moron. How did he, the master of observation, not know this? He knew John had romantic feelings for him, but he thought that was it. Sexual attraction was different.

"I." His voice was high. He swallowed. "I like whatever you want."

John crossed his arms with a raised eyebrow. "That's too easy. You're the bossiest person I know."

"That's not a word."

"Sherlock."

He wished he still had the towel to fiddle with in his hands. He blinked rapidly. _You're not supposed to be anxious,_ he reminded himself. "This is your area, John, not mine. You have far more experience."

John's eyes widened, the tips of his ears flushing. "Are you saying Mycroft was right in Buckingham Palace, that you—you wouldn't know if sex alarmed you, because you're, or were, a virgin?"

Sherlock wanted to throttle Mycroft. He wanted to sink into the floor. "Yes," he croaked.

John's eyes widened further, and then he blinked and coughed behind his fist. "Uh, right. Okay. So. I was. Your first."

_You will be._ "Yes."

John rubbed nervously at his jaw. "Got it."

The silence was deafening between them.

Sherlock felt rooted to this spot.

John put his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants, looking out the window. "Well, I wish I remembered that," he said, voice gravelly.

Sherlock wasn't sure if he ever heard John use that tone of voice with him before. "Remembered what?"

John kept his head turned. "You, during our first time. That must've been a sight."

Heat was gathering dangerously low on his abdomen. "A good sight?" he asked against his better judgment.

John looked at him with eyes so dark they were nearly black. "Yeah. I'd imagine so."

He wanted to see Sherlock during sex. This...this was new. Sherlock had sexual fantasies of John before, of course, but receiving explicit confirmation that John desired to see him vulnerable in the heat of the moment was making him breathe heavily. He was apprehensive, however. No one ever saw him that way before. He was embarrassed enough when he couldn't stifle a moan while masturbating alone in his room. Making _noises _in front of John would be a million times worse. But, it couldn't be avoided if he were to have sex with John. He wanted to, he did. He was just scared, and hated himself for being a forty year-old virgin.

John licked his lips. "Let's...let's go to sleep, okay?"

Sherlock didn't know if he was relieved or disappointed. "Yes. If you want."

John's pupils were still dilated. "This is still new for me, Sherlock. That's all."

"I understand." The heat in his abdomen was still bubbling. This is when he would usually go and take care of himself, but he wasn't about to do that with John in his room.

John was biting his lip, fighting off his own arousal (which was, in turn, extremely arousing to Sherlock). "I was thinking, I just landed in this relationship with you. I didn't get to do the things I imagined, or I don't remember them."

"Things?"

He looked out the window again. "I dunno. The typical stuff. I know you're not a typical man, but still. Dinner and then coming back home to bed, all that."

It felt like his heart was tingling anxiously. "Are you asking me out on a date?" He hoped he wasn't wrong.

John's lips pulled up into a tiny smile. "Yeah," he turned his face towards him. "I am. You think Mrs. Hudson would be angry watching Rosie tomorrow night?"

"She'll manage," Sherlock said breathlessly.

John chuckled a little, low and deep. "Good. Good." He walked casually towards Sherlock, taking hold of his hands. "Then let me take you out tomorrow."

Sherlock realized his jaw was dropped, so he closed his mouth, teeth clacking. Dinner and sex. How pedestrian. With John, how wonderful. They were going to have sex tomorrow. They had no supplies. "We ran out of lube," he blurted out.

John started giggling, squeezing his hands. "Ran out? So we are active, eh? Well," he winked, "you better get some tomorrow."

His mouth was dry, but his palms were moist. Talking and embracing earlier must have helped John after all, because this was the brave John Watson who never failed to make Sherlock weak in the knees. He kissed John firmly, his pulse fluttering.

John smiled into the kiss. "Not yet," he whispered. "Get to bed."

How was he supposed to go to sleep after this? He needed release. "I'll be right there. I've just got to use the loo."

"All right."

As soon as the door was shut and locked behind him, Sherlock's one hand went over his mouth and the other flew to his cock. He leaned against the wall, quickly stroking himself to full hardness. His harsh breathing was loud to his ears, but he figured that was because he was locked inside a small room. He kept going, squeezing and bucking into his hand. Soon enough, liquid was gathering at the tip, and he only had to think of John looking at him in bed like he was a couple minutes ago for him to spurt all over his hand. His breath hitched sharply, and then he held it to stop the moan in his throat in its tracks. He removed his hand from his mouth and exhaled slowly out of his mouth. God, he needed that. He washed off his hands and tucked himself back into his pants.

When he returned to the bedroom, the lights were off and John was on his back with his eyes closed. Sherlock climbed into bed, on his side facing away from John like the night before. He felt John roll over and wrap his arm around his waist, his chuckle low in his chest and vibrating against Sherlock's back.

"Had a good time in the loo?" his whisper dripped with mirth.

Sherlock gasped covered his face with his hands. "God, John!" He thought he had been quiet!

John giggled joyfully behind him. "I'm flattered, you know."

"You're fortunate I'm glad you're feeling better, or else I would kick you out of bed."

"You wouldn't dream of it," John dismissed. "And, I am feeling better than earlier. Thanks for being patient. I know that trait doesn't come easily to you."

Sherlock closed his eyes, happy it was dark enough for his blush to be concealed, although he wasn't sure what good that did him at this point. "It doesn't, but," he sighed, "I like you."

"I should hope so," John said through a yawn. "Goodnight."

Sherlock remained awake for the next seven hours. The anticipation for tomorrow was keeping his brain active, but it was tainted by the constant thorn in his side of guilt.


	5. Date Night

This time, Sherlock woke up before John. He had rolled over in his sleep so that he was facing John now, their legs tangled. He blinked sleepily, eyes adjusting to the morning sunlight. John's cheek was smushed against the pillow and his lips were slightly parted, eyes moving beneath the lids in a dream. His features were a picture of peace, and Sherlock wanted to close his eyes and shuffle closer to John. But then, Rosie's cries from the baby monitor startled him. Sherlock sighed heavily. It was early, but letting John sleep was the least he could do. He murmured a soft _don't get up_ at John as he started to react to the baby monitor.

Sherlock got out of bed and went upstairs to Rosie's (most likely temporary) room. "Hush, I'm here," he told her, taking her out of the crib and bracing himself to change her nappy. He much preferred working with corpses to dirty nappies. Once he had her seated in her height chair downstairs, he washed his hands and got a jar of baby food that John must have bought yesterday from the fridge.

Rosie was cranky this morning, fussing and swatting his hand away when the spoonful of food approached her face.

Sherlock sat down in one of the kitchen chairs, rubbing his eye tiredly. "Can you not?" he muttered. "You need to eat."

She whined and turned her face away.

He took a deep breath, his lip twitching in annoyance. "Rosie. Come on."

She was irritated, but finally opened her mouth and accepted it.

"One spoon down, approximately eleven to go," he said under his breath. When they were seven spoonfuls in after several painful minutes, he heard movement from the bedroom, and then the door to the loo clicked shut. Now that John was awake, Sherlock was growing nervous. He had to put on the facade again. Even though Rosie was less than pleasant this morning, at least he didn't have to pretend with her.

John emerged from the loo, rubbing his stubbled jaw. He stopped in his tracks when his eyes landed on them.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked.

John's mouth opened, then he cleared his throat. "Sorry, I, um, forgot we had a baby for a minute. Just woke up and all."

"I see." He put the jar of baby food and spoon on the tray of the height chair. "No memories returned, I assume?"

John's brow furrowed. "No, maybe."

"Why the hesitation?"

"I can't tell if it was a dream or memory. It was, it was jumbled. It could've been a couple things, or it switched around in the weird way dreams do. I was on a train car with you? There was a bomb and we didn't think we'd make it, but you tricked me and we were fine. Then, we were at some man's house…" He squinted. "He was tall, had a beard and glasses, and he was an arsehole...he flicked my face. I don't know why I didn't punch him, but you shot him in the head."

Sherlock was too tired for the ball of anxiety in his chest to be this prominent.

"These feel too vivid to be dreams," John said. The lines around his mouth were deep. "Please tell me you didn't kill someone."

Neither of these memories required knowledge of Mary, per se, and since only lies had detail, he decided it was safe to tell the truth here. "I did." It was odd having this conversation in front of a baby, but her language acquisition process was early enough that he didn't need to worry about her retaining any of this.

John put his hand over his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Why?"

"His name was Charles Augustus Magnussen, a media man and vile blackmailer. He was one of the worst men I'd ever known, John. He ruined people's lives. I had miscalculated with the case. I was an idiot. I thought he had files on everyone, but it was all in his mind. He had a Mind Palace. I had handed over Mycroft's files to him-miscalculation, again-and he arrived with helicopters to arrest us. I didn't know what to do, so I took the gun from your jacket and killed him." It wasn't very difficult telling this story, since he still didn't regret killing Magnussen. If he hadn't, John would have gotten into deep trouble. He hadn't actually cared about the dirt Magnussen had on Mary, though.

John lowered his hand, disappointment in his eyes. "Christ. I can't believe it."

"Why? You've killed people."

"Yeah," he sighed, "yeah, I have. But. I dunno. I know what it's like, and it's not a good thing. I wish you didn't have to go through that."

He shrugged a shoulder. "It couldn't be helped. Out of all the things in my life, that's one of my least regrets."

"Really?" he asked skeptically.

"Yes." To change the subject, he addressed the other memory. "The other portion of your dream was a memory, as well. It was back in 2014-I killed Magnussen Christmas Day 2015, by the w-"

"Christmas Day?!"

"It was fun until it all went wrong. Anyway-"

"No, wait. How are you not in jail right now?"

Fair question. "Mycroft and his ilk doctored security to footage to make it appear that I didn't do it."

"That's convenient," he said distantly, thinking of the memory. He leaned his back against the doorframe of the bathroom. "Do you regret it?"

"No," he said honestly. "There was no other option. Do you regret the people you've killed?" he asked bluntly.

John's jaw clenched, and he stood up straighter, his posture snapping into soldier mode. "No," he said plainly. "It was necessary. If things had been different, I'd prefer not to have done it all, but."

Sherlock understood. "That's how I feel." He looked at Rosie, at her innocent blue eyes staring at them, uncomprehending. "Let's change topics. Back to your other memory, it was right after I returned from the dead. You were still angry with me, understandably, but came with me on a case. There was a terrorist plot on Guy Fawkes Night. The bomb in the train car was set to blow up the Houses of Parliament."

John grimaced. "God, seriously?"

"Yes. We stopped it, however."

John nodded, absorbing all of this. "That's huge. I wish I remembered more of it. Wait, did you trick me in the train car?"

"Yes," he said, growing uncomfortable. "I made you believe we were about to die so I could hear how much you had missed me. After that incident, we were back to normal again, more or less."

John glowered at him. "That's pretty manipulative, even for you."

_You don't know the half of it_. Guilt tasted sour on his tongue. "I'm sorry. It was wrong of me. I didn't know how else to approach the topic."

John looked at Rosie. "I can finish feeding her."

It was a dismissal. "All right." He took the opportunity to go brush his teeth and shave. Alone in the bathroom, he let himself react to what had just happened. John's memories were returning, and these were not small domestic moments, but major life events. The ticking of the clock was getting louder, and John's reaction to his deceit in 2014 was only a preview of what was to come. Sherlock almost nicked himself shaving. His willed his shaking hand to be still. He wasn't very successful. He was supposed to be intimate with John tonight. Suddenly, he was feeling less excited about it.

Shaking those thoughts away for now, he ate his breakfast in silence as John ignored him and finished up with Rosie.

"Let's get you dressed," he said, taking Rosie out of the chair. When he came back down with her, she was in jeans, socks, and a shirt with puppies on it. She looked cute, and Sherlock was smiling at her.

John went over and dumped Rosie into his lap. "Here, I spent all yesterday morning with her. You be a dad this morning."

Sherlock groaned. "Not more _Peppa Pig_."

"You can actually play with her."

"I was never very good at that."

"Stop being a brat and do it."

While Sherlock was on the sofa reading an organic chemistry book to Rosie because _all forms of reading are beneficial to her brain, John,_ he felt eyes on him. He paused his reading, looking up and finding John staring at him from his armchair. They hadn't spoken in awhile. Actually, Sherlock lost track of time reading. Rosie was blinking slowly, her weight warm and a little heavier than usual against his chest. He realized he was boring her to sleep. Oops. "Yes?" he asked lightly.

John sighed. "Sorry for getting pissed earlier. It happened years ago and I told you I'd try not to be angry about stuff you did in the past."

Sherlock shook his head. "I understand." He wanted to change the mood. "It's encouraging that some memories have returned, yes?" he brought himself to say.

"Yeah, it is." He gestured to the laptop in his lap. "I was just reading about what the press had to say about the Guy Fawkes thing, and it was like you said. I think reading the details jogged my memory a bit. I remember going down there with you, and the press interviewing you outside of the flat 'cause you'd just returned from the dead."

Sherlock stroked a thumb over the top of Rosie's hand, more for his comfort than hers.

"I didn't see any article about this Magnussen bloke being killed by you, so your brother did a good job of saving your arse," he said wryly.

"Unfortunately, I do owe him for that," he said.

John hummed thoughtfully, looking at his laptop. "I went through my blog, too."

Sherlock set the book down, receiving no protestations from Rosie, who was yawning. Chemistry textbooks bored babies to sleep. Got it. Mummy used to read mathematics books to him when he was a child, and Mycroft thought he was stupid for falling asleep to it. "Did you read all the entries?"

"Almost all. It was weird, reading my own words but not really remembering the events. It seems like I don't post nearly as much as I used to."

Deleted entries. "Rosie took up a lot of our time in the beginning, and we went on fewer cases. Does anything on your blog jog your memory?"

"Only in bits and pieces," John admitted. "I was wondering something else, too...where are our wedding pictures?"

Rosie cooed and started tugging at one of Sherlock's earlobes. She wasn't asleep, then.

Sherlock let her, the pain only minimal. "We didn't have an official wedding. We got married at a courthouse and always said we'd have a ceremony later, but never did." If he were really getting married to John, he would have wanted a ceremony. It was only fair, since Mary got to see John in a nice suit and tie.

"I thought something must have been going on," he said, "because I would have those photos on my phone if they existed."

Sherlock breathed through the ball of anxiety in his chest and gently removed Rosie's hand from his ear. "She doesn't like this book."

John snorted. "Oh, what a shock. Why don't you set her down for a nap? It's useful to know, by the way, that if I ever have trouble getting her to sleep, I just got to let you talk to her for a long time."

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. "Mean."

* * *

Sherlock buttoned his suit jacket over his deep red dress shirt. He didn't know why he went with red, but it was too late to change now. John was downstairs giving Rosie to Mrs. Hudson. They were about to go out to dinner, on a _date_. He was already sweating from nerves-sure to be a turn off. He had applied deodorant, of course, but he grabbed John's cologne from the dresser and gave himself a quick squirt. He normally didn't wear cologne, but better safe than sorry. What was he _doing?_ Even if this had happened organically, he wouldn't know what to do. Was he expected to show some sort of physical affection during dinner? Hold hands at the table? He didn't know.

John came back into the room, wearing a dark blue dress shirt that complimented his eyes and dark grey trousers. He was handsome, and he was Sherlock's. He smiled. "Ready?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. I would chide you for being so _sentimental _by picking Angelo's, but it's been awhile since we've gone out." Well, he truly didn't remember the last time they went out to dinner together alone. The last time they went out all was for his birthday, but Molly was there.

"Don't play that 'sentiment is boring' game, or whatever you think," John rolled his eyes.

"Thought," Sherlock corrected.

"Thought," John repeated, smiling again. "Besides, you know he'll give us a spot away from people."

"True." That was ideal. He was embarrassed at the idea of people seeing them be more than friendly with each other.

"Let's go, then."

They sat in amicable silence in the cab, not touching each other, but still sitting close. Sherlock had to stop himself from bouncing his knee nervously. _Stop it. You're supposed to be married. _He was more worried about what was supposed to happen after dinner than anything else. How could he fake being experienced? He had knowledge of what went on during sex with another man. He had watched pornography over the years out of curiosity and read up on how to perform anal sex on the internet. He found the porn to be ridiculous more often than not, but sometimes, he would come across a video that would have him growing hard and reluctantly shoving a hand into his pants, finishing the job quickly. He abstained from sex for so long, all to keep his mind functioning at its best. Now, he was completely out of his depth. John was not. John had sex numerous times throughout his life. Surely, he would detect Sherlock's inexperience?

Once they were seated at the table by a jovial Angelo, John raised an eyebrow at him. "You all right?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered. They were in the corner of the restaurant, a warm, orange light bathing them. Of course, Angelo put a lit candle between them. He looked at the flame, thinking of their first time here all those years ago. They were young men then, not yet scarred by Moriarty or Mary. Or each other. If only Sherlock hadn't rejected John. Wait. "John, remember our first case?" Stupid question.

"Yeah," he smiled easily. "That part of my memory is perfectly intact."

Sherlock put his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his folded hands. "Were you asking me out?"

John's smile dropped and he flushed. _Bingo_. "Um, heh, I guess it's okay to tell you now. Yeah," he grinned shyly, "I was."

Sherlock would never get used to shyness gracing John's features. It made his gut clench. "We could have been together back then," he realized aloud, his shoulders slumping. They could have avoided so much pain. If only he had been different. If only-

John nudged his foot under the table. "Maybe. But you didn't want to, so I couldn't have forced you."

He really hadn't wanted to. He was impressed by John already, but they were still relative strangers. There was no way he could have opened himself up to someone so quickly. "I wish I had wanted to," he said.

John nudged his foot again. "Don't beat yourself up over it, Sherlock." He studied his face. "I know you by now, even if my memory is wonky, and I know you wouldn't enter a relationship with someone so soon." He snorted. "I'm still shocked you're married to me."

Sherlock took a sip of water, fingers tight around the glass. "I'm still shocked you want to be with me after getting to know me," he said.

John gave him a playful kick to the shin. "No fishing for compliments."

"Ouch."

"That didn't hurt."

"Yes, it did."

"If I really wanted to hurt you, Sherlock, I could."

The memory of John kicking his ribs in the morgue flashed before his eyes before he could stop it. He shook his head, shivering and hoping John didn't see. "You won't, you love me too much," he said tightly.

John just chuckled. "You've got me."

His heart clenched painfully. _Oh, John, what did the past five years do to you?_ But Sherlock knew the answer, and he was part of it. He had to stop thinking about this. He was going to make his distress obvious.

"So," John said casually, "what's your brother been up to since I last remember him? Molly?"

Good. This was a safe topic. Sherlock told John about them, focusing on how annoying Mycroft was and his failed exercise routines.

"How'd Molly take this?" John waved a hand in between them. "She always fancied you."

Damn. "She knew I would never return her feelings. It made it easier knowing I'm gay." Had he ever lied this much in his life? His eyes went back to the candle. Their food came, and Sherlock preferred stuffing his face to talking.

"I'm glad to see you eating," John said through bites of food. "You look thinner than I remember."

"I was worried," he said. "Glad you're eating, too, after all that time in the hospital."

"Yeah." He sipped his red wine. Sherlock didn't have a glass, thinking being in less control would only make him feel worse tonight. "Hey, I'm supposed to exercise a bit. Want to walk home once we're finished?"

Sherlock agreed. It would delay them going back home and doing Sex. He was feeling less comfortable with the idea as time passed. He dreamed of having sex with John, so what was wrong with him? Once outside, John, a little buzzed from the wine, locked their arms together as they walked.

Sherlock looked down and gave him a tiny smile.

John's face was flushed from the wine and his lips were in a lopsided smile that made Sherlock's stomach swoop.

Sherlock remembered the only time they got drunk together on his stag night. John wasn't looking at him like this back then, or was he? Sherlock had been inebriated, himself, so he couldn't tell.

For once, instead of the other way around, it was like John read his mind. "You didn't have any wine. Have I seen you drunk before?"

"You have," Sherlock confirmed cautiously. "Once. I don't like my brain being compromised, so I rarely drink alcohol. It was awful."

"I can't remember it," John shook his head. "What was that like?"

"We're both lightweights, so we ended up nearly asleep on the stairs after going out for two hours."

"Oi, I'm no lightweight," John protested.

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh. "John, I was there. You were just as ready to pass out as I was. A client came by and we both fell asleep on the sofa during her story."

John giggled. "I wish I remembered that!"

"Maybe it'll come back later," Sherlock said, his eyes on the pavement in front of them.

"Maybe. Well, I'm not really drunk now, so I'm not 'bout to pass out on the sofa."

"You're not drunk, but buzzed. You would if you sat down for more than eight minutes, I estimate."

John giggled again. "You're silly."

"No, I'm not," he dismissed absentmindedly.

John bumped his shoulder against his bicep. "I'm not gonna pass out before we go to bed," he said in a husky voice.

Sherlock pressed his lips together. "Most people don't sleep before bed."

"You know what the hell I mean," John said in exasperation

They were standing still at a red light now. They were close to home, and there weren't many cars on the road tonight. Sherlock's eyes flickered down at John.

John was gazing softly at him. He stood on his toes and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. It was over before the light changed. "I dunno if you're one for PDA, but I'm usually not. But I've had wine, and you look really good tonight." Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but then the light changed and John tugged on his arm. "C'mon. Let's get home."

Sherlock took a deep breath. He shouldn't have been filled with dread like this.


	6. A Welcomed Interruption

John turned on the lamp on the bedside table as Sherlock shut the door. "I dunno what you usually like," he said, turning to him, "but I'd like to see you tonight."

Sherlock nodded curtly. "That's agreeable."

"Oh, 'agreeable'?" John teased with a smirk, strolling over and hooking a finger around Sherlock's belt, pulling him closer. "That's good." He kissed Sherlock soundly, breath smelling of wine.

Sherlock kissed him back, hoping his heartbeat was audible only to his ears. He told his mind to be quiet and focus on the sensation of their lips molding and smoothing together. He wanted to hold John and envelop him, cover him with his body in this bedroom where they were in their own little world. He didn't know how to go about doing any of that. Maybe he should have taken up Janine's offers for sex in the past. Despite her being a woman, it still would have been some sort of experience. He wouldn't have liked it, but would have been prepared for this to a degree. He was lost, and while he was content, in theory, to let John kiss him and take the lead, he was supposed to know what he was doing. If questioned, he supposed, he could say John always took the lead during sex. Yes, he would do that.

John's warm hand slipping into his suit jacket brought Sherlock out of his head. "Your shirts have too many buttons," John grumbled into the kiss. He rubbed his hand over his chest. "Nice to look at, though." He kissed the corner of his mouth.

"What is?" Sherlock asked, a little dazed.

"You in these suits," John answered, undoing the button on the suit jacket. "Always bloody distracting."

Sherlock swallowed. "I am attracted to you, John, but I cannot say the same about your jumpers."

John started giggling abruptly, lines forming around his eyes. "Really? That's your sexy talk?"

Embarrassed, Sherlock mentally scolded himself. "I don't really-"

"I'm teasing, Sherlock," John said with a soft grin. He went back to kissing him, lips moist and more insistent this time. He wrapped a strong arm around his waist and started to unbutton his red shirt with his free hand, lips trailing from his lips to the underside of his jaw. He opened his mouth and teethed lightly at the sensitive skin on his neck.

Sherlock's mouth dropped open, and he realized his arms were stiff by his sides in surprise. No, that wasn't good. He reached up and grasped John's short hair in his fingers, snapping his mouth shut so he didn't breathe out of his mouth (_embarrassing_). His nerves were singing. John's warm, wet mouth was now kissing his neck by his ear, and he had no idea why but it felt divine. It was just kissing, but it was slowly turning his blood into magma. His lips were so soft, insistent but still somehow gentle. John's arm was supporting him more than his own legs. He couldn't stop a gasp when John's hand met his bare chest, above his pecs, his nipples perking up and tingling when his thumb ran over one.

John stood up straight, Sherlock's hands falling back to his sides, and stared at him with dark, piercing eyes. He licked his lips, hair sticking up. "God, I didn't even do much, but look at you."

Sherlock grasped his face. "Kiss me," he said.

John did, open-mouthed. His contented hum buzzed against Sherlock's lips, sending shivers down his spine. Heat slid down his abdomen when John took his bottom lip and sucked, drawing the pleasure out of him. Electricity jolted through his veins. After a few moments of blissful sucking (god, did that sound filthy), John gently slid his tongue past his lips. He tasted of red wine. This was what he was like after a dinner date. This is what women got to experience. This was what Mary got to enjoy. But Sherlock could have had this, too, that first night. The could have done this after eating Chinese after John killed a man for him. If he had known how important John would become, if he had known he would be desperate for this years later…

Sherlock inhaled sharply, a lump in his throat.

John broke the kiss. "You okay?" he slurred, blinking sluggishly with arousal, his face red.

Sherlock just nodded and smashed their lips together, screaming at his mind to go blank. He stroked the warm skin of John's cheeks, memorizing its texture beneath his thumb pads. It wasn't fair. He loved John more than anyone, certainly more than Mary did. Why did she get to do this? Why did he have to put up so many walls? No, he knew why. The way his knees were weak from simple snogging was why.

John let him go with an exhale, grabbing Sherlock's hand and stepping backwards. "Let's go to bed," he said, voice hushed but commanding.

Sherlock followed him dumbly, realizing he was a little hard. Did John see?

They arranged themselves so Sherlock was lying on his back, shirt unbuttoned and pulled out of his trousers, bare chest heaving from anticipation and arousal.

John was hovering over him, hands braced on the mattress. "Spread your legs," he murmured.

Sherlock flushed and did, acutely aware of the growing hardness pressing against his zipper.

John positioned himself in between his legs, a hungry look in his eyes. He leaned down to kiss his chest, but paused, brows furrowing.

"John?" he rasped.

John sat back on his heels, the red flush draining from his face. "Sh...Sherlock?"

Sherlock tried to push his arousal aside to think straight. "What's wrong?"

John slowly brought his hand to Sherlock's chest and touched the scar near his heart.

_Oh_. He had completely forgotten about that. He was so used to it by now.

"This is a bullet scar," he observed, frowning deeply.

Sherlock swallowed. "Yes."

"It…" He rubbed the spot. His brows furrowed further, looking perturbed. "You…" His voice sounded far away. "You almost died."

Sherlock's heart hammered. "You remember?" he asked urgently, the previous mood in the room gone entirely.

"I, I don't know," John said, holding his head. "I'm trying to remember. I remember, I found you on the floor. You weren't responding. I saw the blood coming from your chest at this spot. It was like seeing you on the pavement all over again," he said, pain entering his voice.

Sherlock sat up against the headboard. The gooseflesh on his skin was now out of anxiety instead of arousal.

John shook his head, lowering his hand. "That's all I remember."

Sherlock could have fainted from relief. "Really?"

"Yeah." He moved and swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing his eyes with a deep sigh that made his shoulders quiver.

"John?" Sherlock sat beside him. "What is it?"

He gripped the edge of the mattress. "Nothing. It's. It's just that I forgot you almost died on me _again_."

Sherlock hesitantly placed his hand on his shoulder. "I assure you I didn't mean to that time," he said quietly. "It was real."

"You flatlined," John said, staring at the door. "I remember that. But the details, I can't. It's fuzzy."

"Case gone wrong," Sherlock said vaguely.

"I figured," John said glumly. "Your heart stopped. For real. It wasn't like when I tried taking your pulse on the pavement. You died." His tone was a mixture of appalled realization and pain. He turned around and looked at him, eyes shining but miserable. "Stop trying to leave me, you arse." His voice was scratchy.

Sherlock's heart thumped painfully. "I never want to leave you," he told him truthfully, hand squeezing his shoulder.

John held his hand, lacing their fingers together, and kissed him fiercely. "God, I love you, Sherlock," he whispered. "Please, I need you tonight."

Sorrow coursed through his veins with every beat of his heart, with every second he looked at John's vulnerable, adoring expression. Sherlock...could not do this. This was wrong. John was about to pour all of his love into this act, and it was based on a lie. He knew how difficult it was for John to trust people, and here he was, with no suspicion and nothing but raw emotion. This got out of hand. It couldn't happen this way. If it never happened, then so be it. Sherlock couldn't betray John's trust _that _much. He would never forgive himself. John, despite all his flaws and past actions, did not deserve this. He would be hurt beyond repair. What the hell was wrong with Sherlock?

Moving slowly, Sherlock took his hand off his shoulder, and retracted the other one from John's. How was he going to get out of this? Was it over already? "John…"

The buzz of the doorbell made them both jump.

Sherlock let out a relieved exhale from his mouth. He had no idea who was at the door, but he definitely owed them. "I thought I'd heard someone on the stairs," he lied.

"Who the hell?" John grumbled, wiping his wet eyes with the back of his hand and glancing at the clock. "It's 8:30. Not that late, but we usually don't have clients now."

"I'll go check who it is," Sherlock jumped up, tucking his shirt back into his trousers and hastily re-doing the buttons as he left and strolled through the sitting room. This was the most welcomed distraction that ever happened to him. He opened the door and raised his eyebrows. "Lestrade."

"Hey," he smiled lightly. "I tried texting you two, but didn't get an answer. I wanted to see how John was holding up and just got off work. Is he up for visitors?"

"Yes," Sherlock stepped aside, "come in. I'll get him."

"Hang on," Lestrade said, lowering his voice. "Does he still have amnesia?"

"Yes," he matched Lestrade's volume. "Please go along with it. His memory is coming back in bits and pieces, which is promising, but major gaps remain."

Lestrade nodded with a frown. "Yeah, all right."

Sherlock went into the bedroom. "John, it's Lestrade. He wants to see how you're doing since your hospital stay."

"Ugh," John scrubbed his face, "I was hoping you'd tell whoever it was to bugger off." He stood up, smoothing out his shirt. "Kinda too tipsy for this, too."

"He was worried. At least talk to him for a few minutes," he insisted.

John raised a curious brow. "Since when'd you get so polite?"

"You rub off on me."

"Not the way I want to," John sighed. "Okay," he said, missing Sherlock's deep blush.

When they emerged from the bedroom, Lestrade eyed them with skepticism. Sherlock felt exposed. But, he just smiled. "Hello, John. Good to see you up and at 'em."

"Yeah," John said with a smile, "it's nice being awake." He sat down in his red armchair, inviting Lestrade to sit in Sherlock's chair, which he did.

Sherlock stood behind John's chair, watching them like a hawk.

"Your head's all right now?"

"Physically, yeah," he joked. "Memory's still crap. Did Sherlock tell you about that?"

"Yes," Lestrade briefly glanced up at Sherlock. "Sorry 'bout that. But you're recovering a bit?"

"Somewhat," he gave a humorless laugh. "It's frustrating, but I guess it'll all return eventually. Not all the memories are pleasant, either." Normally, John wouldn't admit something like that to anyone but Sherlock, but he was still tipsy.

Sherlock was gripping the back of the chair.

"What do you remember?" he asked carefully.

"Well," he pointed a thumb up at Sherlock, "I just remembered he was shot and almost killed."

Lestrade momentarily raised his eyebrows, and then his features smoothed out. "Oh, yeah, that. That wasn't fun, was it?"

"No," Sherlock answered.

Lestrade sat back. "Do you remember who shot him?"

"No," John said confusedly. "Should I? Was it a random criminal?"

A long beat passed. "Ah, I'm just asking," Lestrade deflected, sitting forward and leaning his elbows on his knees. "Funny how the mind works."

"You're telling me," John sighed.

Sherlock could _feel _the tension seeping off Lestrade. What was he doing?

"Hey, where's Rosie?" Lestrade asked suddenly. "Up to bed already?"

"No, she's with Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said.

"Oh. Oh, wait, John, did you remember her?"

"Not at all," he said with a little laugh. "That was a big fucking shock. I'm still adjusting-I woke up today and forgot until I saw her-but, she's great. I just never thought he'd want a kid," he said with another point up to Sherlock.

Lestrade nodded slowly. "Right. Hey, do mind getting her for a moment? It's been awhile since I've seen the kiddo."

John glanced up at Sherlock, clearly annoyed that Lestrade was interrupting their evening. Nonetheless, he smiled tightly and said, "Sure. I'll be right back with her, okay?"

"Great," Lestrade smiled at him.

Sherlock was puzzled by this. Lestrade always liked Rosie, and kids in general, but why did he suddenly want to see her? They weren't close. He wasn't sure how much Rosie recognized him.

As soon as John left, Lestrade's smile dropped and he stared at Sherlock with an intensity he had never seen before. "Sherlock. What the hell are you doing?" he whispered.

Well, that explained his making John leave the flat. Sherlock's muscles stiffened. "What do you mean?" he whispered back.

"I saw him come out of your bedroom, and he thinks you wanted Rosie? Christ, I know you said he thought you were married, but I thought you would have set that straight pretty quickly!"

"I told you I'm letting his memory come back organically," he hissed.

"You're not. You're lying!" He actually looked angry. "As soon as he saw Rosie, you should've told him about Mary. You clearly haven't!"

"Mary made him miserable," Sherlock shot back. "It's better if he doesn't know for as long as possible."

"Better for you?" Lestrade retorted.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Despite his own intelligence being superior, Lestrade truly was an observant man. He felt like he was being interrogated. He didn't like it. "Mind your business," he finished lamely.

Lestrade shook his head, glaring at him. "I've been on your side through a lot, Sherlock. I only arrested you during the Moriarty bit because my boss told me to. But this? You're fucking with a man's heart. You're asking for trouble."

"You think I don't know that?" Sherlock snapped. He disliked this intensely. He was never on the receiving end of Lestrade's disdain like this.

Footsteps were on the stairs, and the conversation was over.

John held Rosie in his arms. She was wearing purple pajamas, big blue eyes blinking curiously at Lestrade.

"There she is," Lestrade smiled at her. He held out his arms. "Can I?"

"Sure," John brought her over to him.

He sat her in his lap. "Hey, Rosie. God, reminds me of when my kids were young."

Rosie grunted and wiggled in his grasp, not protesting, but interested.

"Maybe she'll learn my name before you do," Lestrade said dryly to Sherlock.

John rolled his eyes. "You still don't know his name?" he asked.

"Guh...Grady?" he feigned ignorance, then smirked at the looks on their faces. "No, I know. Greg."

"Thank you," Lestrade said emphatically. "How'd she react to seeing you again?" he looked down at Rosie.

"Me?" John asked. "She was excited. She kicked her feet and clung to me. Hm. Kinda felt bad, not remembering her."

"You will," he said encouragingly.

They shifted into a conversation about Lestrade's own kids, and Sherlock zoned out. Lestrade's confrontation was on his mind. This really was getting harder to maintain. His lies were catching up to him. He didn't expect Lestrade to be so angry on John's behalf, but it made sense. The two of them were friends, after all. Being presented with the truth by a bystander hurt. Sherlock was fucking with John's heart, to borrow Lestrade's phrasing. Even though he decided not to be intimate, he knew John would never forgive him.

Sherlock inhaled slowly, breathing through the tightness in his chest. He couldn't break in front of them.

He must have missed the entire conversation, though, because Lestrade was standing up. "Well, I'll get out of your hair," he handed Rosie to John. "It's getting late and I know you're still recovering."

"I'm really fine," John said, but gladly took her back. "But thanks for stopping by, it was nice of you."

"Don't mention it," he waved a hand. "When you have the time, we should go out for a pint." He nodded to Sherlock. "If I have something, I'll let you know."

"Please do," he said, averting his eyes, finding Lestrade's gaze intimidating for the first time in his life.

"I'll walk down with you," John said. "I have to stop by Mrs. Hudson's."

"I can do it, John," Sherlock offered, fearing that leaving him alone with Lestrade was dangerous.

"All right," he handed her to Sherlock. "I'll see you later," he smiled to Lestrade.

"'Night, mate."

Sherlock felt Lestrade's eyes on him as they descended the stairs. He stared ahead. "Don't," he said softly.

Lestrade stood in front of him once they reached the ground floor. Now, he just looked disappointed. "Fix this, Sherlock," he said with a shake of his head, "you know it's the right thing to do."

He said nothing and turned to Mrs. Hudson's flat. He heard a sigh behind him and the front door open and close. He looked down at Rosie. "I'm glad you don't know what kind of person I really am," he whispered. He gave her back to Mrs. Hudson, explaining that Lestrade was gone and he needed more alone time with John. He couldn't even blush when she smiled suggestively at him.

Sherlock moved slowly up the stairs. Should he tell him now? The sitting room was empty, so he went back into the bedroom. "John?"

John was lying on the bed on his back, eyes closed and slack-jawed, an arm thrown above his head. Damn, they really were lightweights.

Sherlock took a couple steps forward, not knowing what to do. "John?" he called softly.

John snuffled and opened his eyes. "Sherlock?" He was only half awake at best, his gaze unfocused and face soft.

Sherlock didn't want to tell him now, and not just for his own sake. John was too tired, looked too at ease. Sherlock would give him one more night of thinking all was well. After the truth came out, John might not ever be happy again. He ducked his head, the expression on John's face squeezing his heart hard. "Nothing, go back to sleep."

"But," he sat up on an elbow, "we-"

Sherlock turned off the lamp. He stared down at John, wondering what he ever did to deserve being met with this look of affection. (Nothing. He did nothing.) He curled his fingers and stroked his knuckles over John's cheek. "You're tired," he murmured. "I'm not bothered."

John yawned. "Ugh, 'm getting old."

"I know."

John lazily smacked his thigh. "Shut up."

Sherlock sighed. "I'm going to shower, John."

"Okay. I'll do it in the morning," he mumbled.

Sherlock took a very long, cool shower. He watched the water run down his legs and into the drain. He felt resigned. He was going to come clean to John. It was the only place to go from here. After he got out and dressed in his pajamas, he sat in his chair alone in the sitting room, thinking that he didn't even deserve to sleep beside John for another night (John himself was already passed out). He pressed his hands into a steeple under his chin. He needed to think of how to tell John-where to even begin.


	7. The Truth

Sherlock could easily spend a night without sleep during the best of times, but now, it was absolutely impossible. As the hours passed and he finalized how he would break the bad news, he felt sicker and sicker. This was purely his fault. With the Fall, Moriarty made him do it. He should have told John, yes, but the initial act was unavoidable. After that, the source of tension in their relationship was Mary. This time, he had no excuse. He shuddered. Mary. He didn't believe in an afterlife, but got the feeling she was smirking at him from beyond the grave. Perhaps she did win, in the end. John chose to stay with her, even after discovering the truth. Sherlock knee he would not be given the same mercy. It still angered him, however. Why were her lies acceptable to John? He never understood that. She got away with all of it, in the end, and chose to die and make herself a martyr. Sherlock thought now that that had been her plan; she knew her past caught up with her and she would perish sooner or later, but she chose a way that would forever put her in a positive light and tear John and him apart. They grew to reconcile, over time, but Sherlock blew it with this charade. Ultimately, she won. Sherlock laid there, seething. He loathed her. He felt a phantom ache from his bullet scar.

He turned his head and looked at John, who was dead to the world. Why did you choose her? I tried to respect your decision and like her, but I couldn't. I can't. I won't. What was it about her that made her so special?

Sherlock would never know, but Mary was at the heart of this lie. He had to tell John about her. He could have sworn he heard her laughter in the night.

* * *

Sherlock was dressed and sitting in his chair by the time John woke up. Rosie was still downstairs, and he didn't look forward to Mrs. Hudson's reaction to his deceit, but he would deserve it. He would deserve everything about to come.

John came into the sitting room after showering, yawning and scratching his stubbled jaw. "Hello. You're dressed already?"

Sherlock felt sorry for him, for what he was about to do to him.

John, observant as ever, grew serious. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock swallowed. "Everything." No, too vague.

John paled. "What? Sherlock, what's going on?"

"Please sit down."

"I don't want to sit down."

"All right." He wished his heart would stop beating so hard. "John, I haven't been honest with you, and I apologize." He spoke slowly, each word difficult to get out, but there was no use in beating around the bush. He ran out of time, and might as well come out with it.

John blinked. Then, he crossed his arms over his chest. "What did you do?" he asked lowly.

Sherlock's hands were gripping the arms of the chair so they didn't tremble.

"Well?" John asked sharply.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "I do love you, John, more than anyone else I've ever met or ever will meet, but we aren't married."

John's expression was blank.

Sherlock's stomach hurt badly. "I wanted us to be, but we're not. When you awoke in the hospital and saw that wedding ring, I said we were together to see your reaction, in that small moment when you remembered nothing. I said it because, if you were disgusted, I would have backed off immediately and told the truth, and we would have written it off as a joke. I didn't think you would believe me if I said we were married, but you did, and you reacted positively. That caught me off guard, John. I never thought you would want that with me, not after the Moriarty fiasco. I knew that if I told you the truth, you would have been embarrassed to have opened up to me, so I created a façade that we've been together since my return from the dead. But we were never romantically entangled, and I deeply apologize for lying to you."

John's face remained blank. It was far more unnerving than his anger. "Oh," he said softly, voice scratchy. He lowered his eyes to the ground. "I should've known it was a trick." There was no trace of surprise in his tone, but resignation.

That, somehow, hurt worse than anything else he could have possibly said. The implication was clear: John should have known Sherlock would lie to him, be cruel to him, and was a fool for having faith in him. But, was it not true? Sherlock did nothing but hurt him. He never deserved John. "I'm sorry," he said again, sincerely. "I couldn't resist playing out my desire to be with you, especially not after discovering you have feelings for me, too."

"I have more than feelings for you," he said, lifting his gaze, voice strangely quiet and calm. "I love you. You know that, and you took advantage of me anyway. That's terrible."

Sherlock winced. "I know. I'm sorry."

John held up his hand. "What's with the ring, then?"

He braced himself. "You were married, John, but not to me."

John nodded slowly. "'Were,' you said. Am I not anymore?"

"No. She's dead." Sherlock wished John would be angry with him, because the lifeless stare he was getting was far worse. "That was another reason why I hesitated telling you the truth. I didn't want to give you bad news, but I was only postponing the inevitable."

John's shoulders slumped as the light of realization hit his eyes. "Oh."

"What?"

"Rosie. I was married to a woman-that's how Rosie's here." He stared directly at him. "Isn't it?"

Sherlock wished John wasn't so clever. "Yes. She was the mother of your child."

"I should've known you'd never want a baby."

"I do love her-"

"Rosie's still a baby," John interrupted, "so she must have died recently. When? How?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably on his chair. For god's sake, John, be angry! "The woman you married told you her name was Mary, but her real name was Rosamund, and she was a trained assassin. She was the one who shot me, John, because I discovered her true identity. Remember the man I killed, Magnussen? She wanted him dead because he had dirt on her. I walked in on her holding him at gunpoint, and she shot me point blank in the chest. When I survived, she visited me in the hospital bed to tell me not to tell you. I did tell you, and you were angry with her. She was pregnant at this time, by the way. It was only a few months after your wedding. You decided to forgive her and take her back. I had miscalculated the Magnussen case, so I killed him to save us and Mary from her past, but it caught up with her anyway. She had made many enemies over the years. I was about to be shot again, but she jumped in front of the bullet and died. I can't tell you why she did that, because I still don't know for certain."

Some emotion appeared on John's face now, but his voice was still quiet as his brow furrowed and he said, "I don't believe you."

Now Sherlock was confused. "What? That's the truth."

"I stayed married to a woman who tried to kill you? No. Enough lies, Sherlock, haven't you done enough?"

Sherlock stared at him for a long, silent moment. "I'm not lying this time," he said. "You did go back to her, John."

"I...I couldn't have," he protested, and his expression grew pained. "No…"

"John?" He was growing worried. "Are you all right?"

"What the fuck do you think, Sherlock?" he shot back.

Well, there was the anger. "That is the truth about your marriage, John. You began dating her while you thought I was dead, and proposed to her when I returned in November of 2014. I deduced her pregnancy at your wedding, she shot me to keep me quiet, I survived, you took her back, she gave birth, but she couldn't run away from her past forever and died before Rosie's first birthday. There. I have no reason to lie to you anymore."

John was shaking his head. "I...She was blonde, wasn't she? You were with us in the car on the way to the hospital when she was in labor."

"You remember?" he asked, voice trying not to shake.

He didn't answer that question, but instead fire entered his eyes. "Why did you let me marry a bloody assassin?"

Sherlock hadn't expected this conversation to go like this at all. "I didn't know," he said honestly. "Neither of us did. She was an excellent liar. It was part of her job description."

"You're supposed to be the smartest man in the world!" he raised his voice.

Sherlock shrank back in his chair. "Trust me, if I had known, I would have told you right away. I did tell you as soon as I could walk after she shot me."

John pinched the bridge of his nose, looking ill.

"John, I think it would be wise for you to sit-"

"I'm not sitting down!" he shouted.

At least the anger was familiar, and Sherlock knew it was completely warranted.

"My blog," he balled his hands into fists. "Why are there no posts about my wife and child on my blog?"

"I deleted them," Sherlock admitted, looking down at the ground.

"You del…" he trailed off.

Sherlock thought about it. "I'm sure there are older versions of your blog that have been archived somewhere on the internet. I could try to look it up for you."

"The mother of my child," John said as if he hadn't heard him. "You lied to me about the mother of my child. My dead wife."

Sherlock knew this would happen. He knew John would make Mary into a martyr. His fingernails were clawing into his chair. "I didn't tell you she nearly murdered me, either."

"Wait," John said. "I couldn't have lived here with Rosie and Mary. When did I move back in here?"

Sherlock really regretted his actions now. "When you were discharged from the hospital," he said quietly.

Silence.

Sherlock stared at the carpet.

"You selfish machine," he said softly, sounding betrayed.

Sherlock winced, remembering the only other time John called him that.

"I-" John blew a harsh breath out of his mouth, too hard to be a sigh, and shook his head again. "I can't believe you did this," he said thickly. "But I suppose I should have." His eyes were...oh. They were wet.

Sherlock hated making him cry. "I have no excuse," he said. "I told you my reasoning, but I understand it's unforgivable."

"Damn right it is," he said lowly, sniffing. "How long have you even known, hm? That I had feelings for you?"

Had. Past tense. "Since you woke up in the hospital."

His features were still pinched in pain, but the fire in his eyes dimmed a little. "Wait. You seriously didn't know before that?"

Sherlock shook his head mutely.

John's face hardened again. "Whatever. It doesn't matter. I can't-I can't even look at you right now. You betrayed my trust twice, first your death and now this. What the fuck did I do to deserve this?" he kicked the back of his armchair.

"Nothing," Sherlock said truthfully. "This is my fault, not yours."

John was breathing hard. "I was about to have sex with you last night. We were going to have sex for the first time based on a lie. You were seriously going to let me do that. Jesus, Sherlock, have you even had sex before?"

"No," he couldn't look him in the eye. "But, I realized that would have crossed a line, so I-"

"Oh," John laughed bitterly, "so that was when your conscience kicked in. That's rich. What, was the experiment not fun anymore?"

"Experiment?" Sherlock repeated, his heart sinking into his gut. "John, no, you misunderstand me. I do love you."

"And why should I believe you?" he snapped.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but no response came. He closed his lips. "I have nothing to lose anymore. Why would I lie to you now?" It was his only defense, but even to his own ears it didn't sound very compelling.

"I don't know why you do anything!" he threw his hands in the air. "I thought we were friends but you just toyed with me like it was nothing. Friends don't do that. At least there were lives at stake with the Moriarty business, but there was no fucking reason for this!"

"John-"

"Save it!" he barked. "I'm taking my fucking daughter and I'm getting out of here."

"I can tell you the address of your real house," he offered, but the look John gave him told him it was the wrong thing to say.

"Don't talk to me," he growled, eyes wet and furious and exhausted, "ever again. You're awful."

Sherlock nodded, every word a dagger into his chest despite knowing they were coming. "I understand." He had to say it one more time, because having John think he wasn't loved was unacceptable. "I love you."

John's fists shook by his sides. "Don't," he commanded, voice clipped. "Don't ever say that again."

"But it's true," he protested weakly.

"Fuck you," John spat, and turned on his heel and stomped out of the room, slamming the door so hard the walls shook.

Sherlock, strangely enough, let out a sigh of relief. John knew the truth. It was over. He couldn't hurt him anymore. Sherlock's pain would never cease, but John was free of him, and that was what mattered. If only he had told the truth back at the hospital, but his greed got in the way. Sherlock was numb, and only had the strength to shuffle back to the bedroom and collapse into bed. He buried his face into the pillow John used, inhaling the scent and trying to memorize it. That was all he would ever have now, anyway: memories. Memories if John's lips on his, and the way his voice sounded when he told him he loved him. Sherlock would certainly never hear that again, and he didn't deserve to, anyway. He had to live with the consequences of his actions, and he accepted it. Liked it? No, of course not. But it was what it was. He did feel remorse over knowing he would never see Rosie again, though. He supposed he could ask Mycroft for updates on her through the years via surveillance footage, but it wasn't right. He had invaded John's private life enough. He loved them both dearly, so he had to let them go. It was the only right he could do by them.

Sherlock intended to stay in bed for days without food, but Mrs. Hudson furiously burst into the room an hour later.

"What have you done, young man?!" she pointed a finger at him.

Sherlock turned his face so he could see her, but didn't lift his head from the pillow.

"Sherlock Holmes, you've done a lot in your lifetime and I've stood by you through most of it, but I can't support you in this! How could you lie about love? That's downright cruel."

"I know," he mumbled into the pillow. "You're right."

"Of course I'm right!" she put her hands on her hips. "You should have seen him when he got Rosie! I never witnessed him cry, not even when Mary died."

John had cried in front of her? Sherlock really, really, really screwed up. "It wasn't fair to him," he admitted easily. "I'm wrong. I know. I have no excuse."

"Why did you do it?" she asked incredulously. "You're smarter than that."

"I got greedy," he rolled over onto his back. "For a moment, I could have what I wanted. I knew it would end badly as soon as I told him we were married, but was too cowardly to tell him the truth."

"Cowardly, indeed!" she glared at him.

Sherlock had no reply. Nothing could penetrate the numbness which encased his whole body.

Mrs. Hudson went on. "I know you care for him, Sherlock, but that wasn't caring."

"I know," he said. "I acted out of self-interest."

"Yes, you did." She shook her head. "I'm going to be cross with you for a long time."

"Go ahead," he said, but not sarcastically. "I know I lost him forever and I'm getting what I deserve."

Mrs. Hudson twisted her mouth to the side. "Perhaps not forever."

Sherlock rolled onto his side so his back faced her. "Don't be ridiculous. He won't forgive me, and he shouldn't, anyway."

"He forgave Mary for shooting you," she said.

Sherlock curled in on himself. That was true. He knew what he did was terrible, but at least it wasn't attempted murder. Mary put the bar that low, but John went back to her. Why? He still couldn't answer that question. He wasn't making excuses for himself in any way, but Mrs. Hudson may have had a point; if he could forgive his spouse for lying about her identity and attempting to murder his best friend, then why not forgive his best friend for having him believe they were in a relationship? All right, no, that still didn't sound good, but that was the nature of the insane lives they lived. Even so, he expected no forgiveness from John.

"That was different," he said finally.

Mrs. Hudson didn't say anything for a few moments. "If you loved him, you should have just told him," she said quietly.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. "If I had known he felt the same, I would have. I never thought he would have reacted positively to the idea of being married to me. If I had known…" He trailed off. That was the crux of it all: if he had known John loved him, he would have told him in the restaurant in November of 2014, Mary's presence be damned. John still would have been angry with him for his faked suicide, but John would have forgiven him, back then, and they could have had the fictious marriage they lived through since his discharge from the hospital. John would have chosen him over Mary, back then. But he was too late.

"What a mess," Mrs. Hudson sighed. "Give him time, Sherlock. Don't contact him, but wait until he's ready."

"He told me never to speak with him again."

"He said the same after Mary's death."

That letter. God, it had hurt. It was the worst thing he ever read. He still had it. He sat up, and reached behind him to open the drawer of his bedside table. He took the folded piece of paper and handed it to Mrs. Hudson. "Give him this," he told her. "It might help jog his memory, and he should know about this." He was under no illusion that it would help his case in any way, but he wanted to help John's memories return.

She frowned. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Yes. It's necessary."

"Well, all right." Her eyes were sad. "I'm disappointed in you, Sherlock."

He laid back down. "I know."

She left the flat.

Now alone, Sherlock knew that John and Rosie's things were still here, so he sent a text to Mycroft, asking if his movers could move their belongings back to John's flat.

So it's over? -M

_Yes._

What did you gain from this endeavor? -M

_I don't know. Nothing. I lost everything._

…

Is this a danger night? -M

_No._ (Honestly, as strange as it sounded, Sherlock didn't even have the energy to do drugs. His heartache was worse than the blowup after Mary's death. He didn't want to feel anything.)

I don't understand why you did this. -M

_Don't rub it in._

I'm not. You merely puzzle me. -M

Sherlock didn't respond, and when John's belongings were taken out of his room, he just sat on the bed and watched. It was an awful sight, but at least he could return their belongings without having to interact with him again. John would probably prefer it that way, too. When night fell, the flat was significantly emptier than it had been in the morning in more ways than one. The numbness throughout his body did not cease. Sherlock didn't know what to do with his life now. He supposed he would go back on cases eventually, but didn't know when he would have the desire to work again, knowing John would never be by his side again. In addition, Lestrade was probably angry with him, too, and might deny him work. He just wanted to close his eyes and remember the short time he spent as John's husband. His memories would have to keep him company from now on, since his actions isolated him from everyone else. There was a time when he was utterly alone like he was now, and he always thought he would be that way. John changed that, and he found other friends in Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Lestrade. That life was too good to be true, though. Being alone was his fate, and he should have known nothing would prevent that.


	8. Emails

Everyone thought that Sherlock would go back to drugs, so Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft kept an eye on him like he was a child. Logically, he couldn't blame them; he nearly died when John left him after Mary's death. He hadn't been that bad since his youth. He had let himself go completely, his cheekbones jutting out of his face, his jaw stubbled, deep, dark circles under his eyes, and his hair unwashed and greasy. He looked the same way now, but not because he was high. Sherlock simply didn't see the point of taking care of himself when he felt so terrible, and when he hurt John so badly. He felt like spending his days high was too good for him, so he wallowed in his misery completely sober. He ate enough to live, but not anything more. He spent his days curled up in John's armchair, letting television turn his brain into mush. He slept often because being unconscious was easier, but none of the slumber was restful. He was perpetually exhausted.

"This isn't good," he heard Mycroft mutter behind him one night. "He hates television. We both do. How long has he been like this?"

"The past five days," Mrs. Hudson's hushed, concerned voice replied. "I'm not sure how much he's moved. He won't talk…"

Sherlock didn't have the energy to tell them to go away. He didn't intend to spend the rest of his life in this manner, but he needed time before he could get back on his feet. Why couldn't people just give him time? The past several years had taken a toll on him, but Sherlock couldn't brush off heartbreak the way he used to, even if he deserved it. He was middle-aged now. All of those years trying to protect himself from being affected by emotion were for nothing. Maybe if he'd let himself feel things more, he wouldn't have turned out this way, and he wouldn't have thought of that hair-brained scheme to act like he was John's husband. But he couldn't change anything now. He had a heart, and it belonged to John. It felt like John had ripped it out of his chest when the left the flat. It was a combination of gnawing emptiness and pain.

Sherlock spent three weeks lying around. Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft kept visiting, but he was as anti-social to Mycroft as possible. He adored Mrs. Hudson, but he wasn't in the mood to talk. There was nothing more to say. He started to take better care of himself just so she would stop coming up to the flat so frequently. He shaved and showered regularly now, but he was too thin, he could admit. But food had no taste anymore, and his appetite was gone, His entire body felt hollow. Sleep did not replenish his energy. Food did not satisfy the cramping in his stomach. Drinking water and tea didn't stop the shaking of his hands. He almost felt like a ghost living in his own flat, just floating around aimlessly. He didn't know where to go from here. Work wouldn't be the same without John, and his only other friends were rightly angry with him. Lestrade, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson were told all about it. A small, childlike part of him hoped Mycroft hadn't told his parents.

Sherlock's phone pinged with an email. He checked his emails just for something to do, even though he had no intention of taking clients anytime soon. It broke up the monotony without effort on his part.

Sherlock's eyes widened and his breath hitched so sharply that he coughed.

It was an email from John.

He opened it immediately.

_Sherlock,_

_I don't want to see you right now or talk to you on the phone, so email is the only thing I can think of. Don't take this the wrong way. I'm only doing this because I've got questions and I deserve answers. I don't know how to start this. I'm still so angry at you, and I know I'm not wrong for that. There were times in my life when I was really, really wrong with how I treated you, and my anger was misplaced. But not this time. That's the main thing I want to tell you: I remember those other times now. Mycroft got someone to restore my old blog entries, and reading through them and looking at pictures jogged my memory. I think the passage of time has helped, too. Some stuff started to come back gradually, but reading the blog posts and seeing the pictures from the wedding helped a lot. I can't believe you deleted my wedding pictures. That wasn't right, Sherlock, but deleting the pictures of Mary with Rosie when she was an infant from my phone was worse. I can't get those back. Mycroft just told me that they existed. _

_I got in touch with Lestrade, too, and asked him about some things, like details about the Culverton case. Talking to him jogged some things as well. I don't know if there are things I'm still missing, but I remember meeting Mary, your return, my wedding, and when Mary shot you. I remember when you told me it was her, and when we confronted her in the flat. I remember going back to her, Rosie's birth, and Mary's death. It's all been coming back to me over the past two weeks._

_Mycroft showed me something else, too. He got security footage from Magnussen's office and showed me when Mary shot you. I know I didn't see it happen back then, but I wanted to see it. I don't know why. There was audio. You tried to help her. She had a gun pointed at you, and she didn't move her arm at all during the conversation. She shot you with no hesitation. I watched it over and over to make sure I wasn't imagining things._

_Sherlock, why did you tell me she saved your life? That was a lie. Another lie. Why did you want me to go back to her? Why did you _let _me go back to her? I can't figure any of that out. It's been driving me mad._

_Answer soon,_

_John_

Sherlock read the email several times. Just receiving correspondence from John eased the pain in his gut by a fraction. He was genuinely relieved to hear John's memories were back, as well. He was worried there would be a huge gap in his memory forever. He cared about his health, even if it meant he remembered every terrible thing Sherlock said and did since 2014. Out of all things, Sherlock didn't know why John was stuck on the fact that he stayed married to Mary. Why did it bother him? Had it bothered him before he got amnesia?

John's signature was a command, so the least Sherlock could do was answer (and he was eager to respond). He told the absolute truth, because it was what he deserved.

_John,_

_I am happy to hear your memory is recovering well. Your health is important. If there is anything else you want to know, just ask and I will tell you. I understand you do not trust me, but I can only swear to tell the truth. To answer your questions: I did not trust Mary to be neutralized as a threat, so I thought the best course of action was placate her as much as possible after I left the hospital. Do you remember when she came to meet me in Leinster Gardens, and I brought you with me after you discovered she shot me? She brought her loaded firearm and was prepared to finish the job. If we had told her off in the flat and called the police, there was a chance she would have killed us. I would not take that risk. Disarming Mary-figuratively, at least-meant allowing her to get away with it._

_The reason why I failed to tell you that I was lying about her saving me, and told you to return to her, was because I believed you truly loved Mary and wanted to be with her. Your happiness was my priority, John, despite what my recent actions have indicated. I was willing to deal with having to play nice with my would-be killer if it meant you had a satisfying marriage with the mother of your child. You chose her. I did not want to interfere, as I had caused you enough grief. That sounds hypocritical, I'm aware, but that was my reasoning at the time. I didn't actually want you to be with Mary, deep down, but because I thought that was what you wanted, I encouraged you to stay married to her. You never told me you wanted to break up with her, but after Mary's death, you revealed you cheated on her. Did you truly want to return to Mary that Christmas, or did you only forgive her because I told you to do so? I am sorry if I caused you more grief. It was never my intention._

_Please respond if and when convenient,_

_Sherlock_

He read the email over and nodded in satisfaction. There was no trace of how much he wanted John to come back to him. It was factual and polite. Perfectly acceptable. He hit send. He wondered if these emails would be the last time they spoke, and if John would cease all further correspondence once his questions were all answered. Sherlock prepared himself for that possibility, and decided to save John's email to his hard drive so he would never lose it, lose this.

And then his life became waiting for John's response.

John's response came late the next night.

_Sherlock,_

_Why didn't you just TELL me any of this? If you thought Mary was a threat to our safety, you could have told me. We could have worked together to arrest her or something. Why do you never let me in? Why didn't you let me in with Moriarty, either? Why couldn't you ever just talk to me? I don't know why you thought keeping secrets would be in my best interest, but it wasn't. You made me really fucking confused and angry. You made me feel like I was wrong for being furious with her, but I wasn't. I should have stayed angry with her. My gut told me to not go back to Mary but you kept insisting she was somehow innocent in all of this. No, okay? No. I didn't want to go back to Mary. I remember my reluctance now. I remember barely stomaching when I hugged her at your parents' house on Christmas. She tried to kill you. I couldn't ever look at her the same way. But Mary's pregnancy complicated things. I didn't want her to, I don't know, run away and take the baby, or run away while pregnant and then I never see either of them again. Remember when she ran away and left me with Rosie to deal with AJ? My fear wasn't unfounded after all._

_And don't pull this martyr act, Sherlock. Don't act like you just sat there with your bleeding heart and watched me go back to my wife out of some bloody sense of moral duty. And why did you act like you shot Magnussen for Mary's sake when you disliked her? I remember you telling me to give your love to Mary and to tell her she was safe. I don't understand you._

_Answer me._

This email was shorter and angrier than the last, and Sherlock found his response this time around harder to compose. He was glad they were doing this over email, at least, so he didn't have to see the hatred in John's eyes or the coldness of his voice. He wasn't really surprised to learn that John didn't want to go back to mary, but his question stabbed his gut: why didn't Sherlock tell him anything? Why did he never let him in? It was completely valid, and it now dawned upon him that if he had just been honest from the very beginning, starting with Moriarty, that they would have never been in this situation. It was truly Sherlock's fault. If only he let John in like a normal person instead of blocking him with all of the carefully constructed walls he built up starting in childhood. He imagined an alternative reality where he informed John of his plan with Moriarty. John would have waited for him to return from Eastern Europe, and his hard-to-earn trust would have never been broken. Perhaps he would not have sought out comfort and company in Mary if he knew Sherlock would one day come back to him. Sherlock had so foolishly and selfishly thought he would have been welcomed back from the dead with open arms. He was the most idiotic genius on the planet.

Sherlock's eyes had been surprisingly dry over the past week, but a bitter tear rolled down his cheek at the thought that something as simple as telling the truth would have saved them years of pain. The simplest answer to a problem is usually the correct one. He should have come to this conclusion far sooner. If only. If _only_.

Although it pained him, Sherlock typed up as honest of an answer as possible.

_John,_

_I am truly sorry for not letting you in. If I had known the consequences my keeping secrets would have, I would have told you everything right away, from my plan to falisfy my suicide to how I did not trust Mary. With Moriarty, I did not let you in because I told myself long ago to prevent anyone from coming close to me. It was a stupid idea. I know. My selfishness and lack of understanding of human emotion led me to believe that you would have not been dramatically affected by my death, as well, so I did not consider it a big deal. I know now, 100%, how idiotic that was. I'm sorry, again. For the situation with Mary, old habits die hard, I suppose. I absolutely should have told you what was going on, and you're right; we could have worked together._

He paused writing for a minute to imagine if he and John created some kind of plan to arrest Mary. They probably would have come up with something. They could have gotten Mycroft and the Yard to assist them. The misery in their lives could have ended in 2015. He wiped his eyes and kept typing.

_I _wish _we worked together to deal with Mary. I wish I'd let you in on everything, since the day we met. I sincerely apologize. I should have trusted you more. I trust you with anything now, but that does us no good. You're right, too, to be sceptical of my motivations for killing Magnussen. I killed him because he would have thrown you in jail for the rest of your life along with me. I could not allow you to rot in a cell due to my own error. I knew I was going away one way or another, so I took the course of action that would benefit you and killed him. I told you it was for Mary's safety because I still couldn't admit that I loved you, then._

He wondered if he should take that part out, but no, it was honesty.

_Regarding Rosie, you were absolutely right to fear that Mary would take her away, or disappear before she gave birth. When she left to pursue AJ, I was angry on your behalf, but Rosie's, as well. How is she? I hope she's doing well._

Sherlock had not thought about how much Mary's pregnancy could have played a role in John taking her back, but it made perfect sense. He should have thought of that. As much as Sherlock wished John had chosen him over Mary, he couldn't deny that he was perfectly logical to fear for his future child's safety when the mother was an ex-assassin. Of course John wouldn't leave his baby alone with someone like that. Of course he wouldn't. John Watson never abandoned those who needed him the most. He even came back to Sherlock during the Culverton fiasco. Sherlock, oh so terribly and selfishly, felt a tad better about John going back to Mary. It was like he finally had another piece of the puzzle.

_I must disagree with you on something, however. I am not attempting to pull a martyr act. I am telling you the truth of my thoughts and feelings of our past. I...truly did love you but told you to return to her anyway. I only did so for your benefit, or so I thought. I'm sorry I got it wrong. I'm sorry that this was the only way I was able to express how much I care for you. I'm not a normal man, John. I'm not._

_Sherlock_

He hit send, and had to curl in on himself on the sofa to try to stop his heart from twisting itself into a pretzel. He used to wish he were normal during childhood. He became more comfortable in his skin in adulthood, but he regressed. It wasn't simply that Sherlock wished he were normal for his own benefit, but for John's, too. A normal person wouldn't have done any of this to John.

* * *

Sherlock didn't hear from John for four days. He was glued to his phone and laptop in the meantime.

"I'm glad you're talking again," Mrs. Hudson said as she brought up his laundry.

"It's temporary," Sherlock muttered. He wasn't deluding himself, especially after the anger in John's previous email.

"You don't know that," she said, setting the laundry basket down onto the floor.

"I know everything," he said reflexively.

"Did you know John would send you emails?" she raised an eyebrow.

Sometimes Sherlock wished Mrs. Hudson weren't so clever. He didn't say anything.

"That's what I thought," she said smugly.

"I don't want to get my hopes up," he admitted, because there was no use at all in hiding how much he loved John anymore, especially not to the woman who was witnessing this depressive episode.

Mrs. Hudson gave him a sympathetic look. "He came back to you before."

"This crossed too many lines," he waved a hand.

She sighed. "I won't deny that, Sherlock, but wouldn't you say things were worse last time?"

Sherlock held back a shudder. He disliked thinking of that era. "Perhaps," he mumbled.

"Things are different now," she said. "He knows how you feel."

"What difference does that make when considering my actions?" he asked honestly.

Mrs. Hudson's smile was small, but sincere. "You know, Sherlock, a few years ago, I'm not sure if you would have asked that question," she said quietly.

Sherlock blinked. No, he wouldn't have, actually. He knew himself.

"You've changed."

"John made me better," he said immediately. _But not much_, he thought miserably.

"I think it's gone both ways." She put a hand on his shoulder. "Just give him more time. Why don't I make you a nice cuppa?"

Sherlock pulled his dressing gown tighter around himself. "All right."

* * *

He didn't know what he expected John's next email to say, but it wasn't this.

_Sherlock,_

_I talked to Lestrade more about the Culverton case and I finally read the letter Mrs. Hudson gave me. She didn't even need to tell me I wrote it. I recognize my own handwriting. I've been writing and deleting this email for hours now. _

_I remember now. _

_I was so miserable about my marriage. I felt trapped. I didn't want to go through a divorce when we had an infant, and you and Mary were acting like best mates. I felt like I was the only one who saw something wrong with the situation. So I went and cheated, sort of. It felt like the only power I had over my life. But I know cheating is wrong. I should have been honest with Mary sooner, although she never did the same with me, did she? But I was going to tell her, and then the aquarium happened. I remember her death. I wasn't sad, Sherlock. I was _angry_. I was angry at everyone and everything. I was angry at myself for cheating on Mary, for staying with her long enough to cheat, and because I knew instantly that I wasn't sad but I should have been. I was angry at her, because after all of that she just went and acted like she ever gave a shit about me, or you for that matter. That was bollocks. If she cared about either of us, she would've never tried to kill you. And then I was angry at you for telling me to go back to her, which led me to cheat. In my mind, at least. But I made my own decisions. I couldn't own up to it at the time. _

_Mary was dead, so directing my anger at her was pointless. I was too much of a coward to admit I was angry with myself. So I took it all out on you. All of it. I read that letter I wrote you. Out of all things, Mary's death was never your fault. For some reason, she chose to jump in front of that damn bullet just like I chose to cheat on her-and ultimately stay with her. None of that was your fault. But I blamed you for every single thing that went wrong in my life anyway and told you I never wanted to see you again. Yeah, I wish you'd told me everything. I wish you would have trusted me as much as I trusted you, before your suicide. But I guess I can't really blame you for closing yourself off. Not completely. Life has been hard to you, and in no small part because of me._

_You know what I'm talking about, don't you? Haven't you deduced it? The morgue. Culverton. You were hallucinating. You were dying, and what did I do? I really thought you were going to hurt someone with that scalpel, so that's why I hit you the first time. To snap you out of it. But the rest was not needed. It wasn't right. You didn't deserve that. All of the anger I had at myself and for that woman exploded that day. It was easier to take it out on you than to deal with my emotions. I remember the way you fell to the ground and the blood coming from your nose and eyebrow. I did that to you. Me. When I loved you so much...when you loved me so much._

_Sherlock. I am so sorry. What you've done since I left the hospital is irrelevant here. You did nothing to deserve that. That was completely and utterly my fault. When I remembered, I felt so sick that I thought I'd be physically ill. I'm sorry. I wish I didn't remember now, but that wouldn't be fair to you. I did it. I can't change it. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry._

_But I'm going bloody mad over here. Why did you take me back? Why did you ever want to be with me again? Why didn't you stop loving me? You should have. I believe you now, about not trying to be a martyr. You did all of that and kept things from me because you really love me. Like I said, I don't think that was the right thing to do, but I misjudged you. I've done that a lot. You did get it wrong, but you didn't mean to. I know that now. You were willing to put your own happiness aside for mine. What did I give you in return? A black eye. Then you hugged me when I cried about Mary, after I did that to you. I've been struggling to write this for days because I realised how much you've always done for me. It's all finally hit me. I initially emailed you because I couldn't understand why you would let me go back to an ex-assassin, but that was me taking my anger out on you again. It was still my choice to stay married to Mary, but with the amnesia, it felt like I was hearing about a different person. I couldn't believe I'd do that. How did I let myself get like that? How did I sleep in the same bed with the person who almost killed you? I'm not the man I thought I was. That's scared me. _

_How do you not hate me? I hate me._

_I'm sorry,_

_John_

_P.S. Rosie is fine. Thanks for asking._

It took three hours for Sherlock to compose a response, partly because he had to choose his words carefully, and partly because he had to pause to drink water to stop his fingers from trembling over the keys.

_John,_

_I am sorry to hear how unhappy you were in your marriage. If I had known that would be the end result, I would not have encouraged you to stay with Mary. I suppose I can admit now that I was not saddened by her death, either. I was sad for you, because I believed you were deeply mourning, but her death confused me more than anything. I promised to tell you the truth, so I will do so again now: I thought long and hard for a long time over why Mary saved my life in the aquarium, and have only come up with one conclusion. She knew her past had finally caught up with her, and there was no way out. A lifetime of hired criminal work would end her life, or a bullet. She was very conniving and manipulative, although I am sure I don't have to tell you that. She wanted to keep you by her side at all costs. On the security footage of Magnussen's office, did you hear when she told me she wouldn't let you find out? She was willing to resort to murder to stay married to you. I would not put it past her to choose to die a sooner death by taking the bullet intended for me, with the intention of placing herself in a martyr's position. In your other email, you told me I was putting on a martyr act, but I believe that distinction belongs to her final moments. I think Mary knew you would be angry with me and that her death would tear us apart. She was right. It did. We came back together, but I ruined us again. _

_I am sorry for getting sidetracked, but I wanted to tell you my thoughts on the matter. No more secrets. To get back to the point, I understand why you felt guilty for your lack of remorse over her death. You always had a moral compass, and a husband is typically supposed to forever mourn the death of his wife, but your marriage was atypical. I do not think anyone would blame you for being angry with her, even in death._

_I must admit I find this email difficult to write, as well. I knew you were hurting badly, John, so I did not take the letter personally. However, I will not lie and act as if it had no effect on me. You certainly remember my relapse, yes? But that was my decision to make, too. We all made choices and must face the consequences, just as I know I would face consequences for lying to you in the hospital. I am in no way trying to find an ethical justification for my actions, but now that your memory has returned, do you see, on an objective level, why I took advantage of that short time when you did not remember Mary? It was idiotic and horrifically selfish of me, I understand, but it was the result of living with the spectre of Mary looming over us since my return in 2014. I am still sorry for lying to you, though, about everything. Please remember that._

_As I was saying previously, your letter was not an easy read. With that said, I forgive you, John. This applies to that day in the morgue, too. We were at our worsts, wouldn't you say? I was high as a kite, nearing death, and out of my mind. I really did almost harm someone with the scalpel due to my hallucinations. You were going through a difficult loss after an extremely unhealthy marriage, and a friendship filled with lies. Afterwards, in the flat, you did tell me Mary's death was not my fault, so it isn't as if you stuck to that mindset forever. The morgue was our worsts. That was not you. That was not me. Neither of us was in the right state of mind. You said you are sorry, so that is all I need, but the truth is I never held a grudge against you. The full scale of your feelings about Mary and your marriage are clear to me now, but I always suspected there was tension (I only thought you wanted to make it work). A month after your marriage, you were already cycling to work. Being in such an unhealthy relationship must have taken a toll on you, and her sudden, confusing death before you could have closure with her was too much for you to bear. I may not be the most empathetic man, John, but I understand. You forgave me for faking my death for two entire years. I forgive you for one bad day._

_You asked how I could still love you, but a better question is: how could I not? You always brought out the best in me. I found a companion in you, someone I was searching for my whole life without even knowing. You have flaws, as does every person, but you try to be good. You have always cared about people, even when I derided you for it. You are kind and intelligent. You are such a strong, brave person, John. I admire you. You are also a good father, despite not trying for a baby. I know you and Mary did not plan her pregnancy, but you love and care for Rosie regardless. You made me laugh, and taught me companionship is infinitely superior to being alone. You were the first person I could ever be the closest to being myself around. When you kissed me, you made me feel loved, which is something I thought no one would ever feel for me. Do you remember when the Woman texted me on my birthday, back in the flat after the Culverton case, and you told me romantic entanglement would complete me as a human being? You were absolutely right. Despite the guilt and anxiety I felt over the duration of our shame of a relationship, it was the most whole I ever felt. You made me feel alive. _

_I wish we could have gotten together years ago, before I ruined everything. I wish I could have been ready for you sooner. I am sorry for being too late._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock_


	9. The End

Sherlock wanted to stay up and wait for a response from John, but the human body had its limits. He was eating regularly again, but was wound-up and jittery ever since John's first email. He was exhausted, but bounced with energy. He always hated that combination. His eyes strained and burned as he read every line over and over, the blue light from his phone doing nothing to ease his insomnia as he reread the emails in the late hours of the night. Around six in the morning, he couldn't force his eyes to stay open anymore, and Sherlock fell asleep on his side on the sofa with his arm hanging off the cushion, and his phone dangling in his hand, hovering over the floor. His sleep was not restful, and it would probably take a few days of sleeping through the night for him to stop feeling drained even after he awoken. He shifted and rolled onto his back, groaning at the ache in his joints. He was getting too old to treat his body like this. He was in his 40s now, and wished he'd treated his body kinder when he was in his 20s. His hand twitched around the phone. He was so tired that it felt like he hadn't slept at all, but he knew he couldn't fall asleep again. His eyes cracked open, aching when the sunlight from the windows hit his face. He rubbed his eyes and sat up slowly, his neck hurting from spending all night on the sofa.

Sherlock pushed his unruly fringe away from his forehead. It was going to be a nightmare when he decided to comb his hair again. He was going to look at his phone for a new email, but he looked up and sat there on the sofa, blinking several times, a deep furrow forming in between his eyebrows.

John was sitting in his red armchair, reading the newspaper.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes again. He didn't recall taking drugs, but he was definitely alone when he fell asleep and he didn't hear anyone come in, and he was usually such a light sleeper. Besides, there was no way John would be here. He remembered when he first came back from the dead and had to work with Molly, and he heard John's voice in his head. That was the closest he ever came to hallucinating while sober, but that had been purely auditory. Did he really lose his mind? Did it finally happen?

John folded the paper with a sigh and turned his head. "Awake, then?" he asked.

Sherlock put his phone down on the sofa. His mouth was dry, and he swallowed. He needed a toothbrush. "I'm not sure," he replied, because why would John be here? Why would he choose to come back here, ever? He was too worn out to feel anything right now. He just stared at him. This felt real, but logic was telling him there was no reason for John to return.

The bags under John's eyes were deep and his shoulders were hunched. There was some anger in his face, but it was dimmed. He looked exhausted, too. He was wearing a blue jumper that normally brought out his eyes, but his gaze was drained. "I thought I'd think of how to start this before you woke up, but I haven't. Never was good at the talking bit. Neither of us were."

Sherlock ran his tongue over his teeth. He must have looked dreadful, although it wasn't like John was interested in him anymore, anyway. At least, that was what he assumed. "How long have you been here?"

"A couple hours. You look worse for wear, so I let you sleep."

Okay. What else should he say? Oh, right, there was no baby. "Where's Rosie?"

"With Molly."

"Oh."

This was incredibly uncomfortable.

Sherlock sat up completely straight and folded his hands onto his lap. He supposed he should have been more shocked, or felt _ something _other than numbness. "Why have you returned?" he asked.

John released a long sigh. "God help me, Sherlock, but I can't stay away from you for good."

Sherlock looked down at the carpet. Having nothing to lose had a way of making him more honest than he'd ever been. "I don't want you here if you feel as if you're being forced," he said. "I've caused you enough grief." No forcing. No pretenses. No more. He was tired of making those around him unhappy.

"I chose to walk here today," John said. "Just like I chose to email you. I could've ignored you for the rest of my life, but here I am."

Sherlock kept his gaze to the floor. "Why?"

There was a small, pregnant pause before he spoke. "I'm sick of hating my life."

Such blunt, vulnerable statements were rare from John, and caused Sherlock to lift his head. He tried to think of a response, but came up blank. He only felt guilty, because so much of why John hated his situation was due to his selfish actions. He wished he had developed empathy earlier in life, not for his sake, but for John's.

John stood up from the chair, his gaze focused, face hard. "You did a lot to hurt me."

Sherlock shrank back into the sofa. "Yes."

"I did a lot to hurt you," he said, looking him in the eye.

Sherlock hesitated, his instinct to hide his pain strong.

"Don't deny it," he said quietly.

"Yes," Sherlock admitted.

John frowned deeply. "I'm sorry."

"I know you are," he said quickly.

"No, let me apologize to your face. The amnesia made me look at myself from the past few years from an objective point of view." He spoke lowly, seriously. His shoulders were squared. He was determined. "I hated who I saw." He shook his head, looking down briefly before meeting his gaze again. "I really hated who I saw. I couldn't wrap my head around it, which was why I asked you all those questions in my emails. I couldn't face the truth of what I'd become. I was angry in my messages because of my own behavior. Turns out I do that a lot. I'm sorry, again."

Sherlock stayed silent, getting the sense that this was something John felt as if he needed to say, although the apology was still nice to hear, truth be told.

He crossed his arms over his chest. "I can't change the past, and I realized that you can't, either."

Sherlock felt some emotion crack through the ice that encased his heart. "What does that mean?" he asked plainly, unwilling to try deductions and reach the wrong conclusion.

John's expression was stern, but his voice softened ever so slightly. "I don't like what you did, but you can't change it, and you're sorry. I don't like what I did, but I can't change it, and I'm sorry. We're on the same page, maybe for the first time in years."

Sherlock realized that was true. They were on much more equal footing before Moriarty, and that felt like a lifetime ago. But even then, Sherlock still hid things from John. "I disagree. This is the first time I haven't hidden a thing from you, even if the only secret I kept was my own sentiment."

"That's fair," John conceded. "But you're proving my point. There's nothing left to hide. _ Is _ there?"

"No," he shook his head, standing up. "I swear it, John. I've told you everything."

He nodded. "Right. So, I did a lot of thinking. I think it's fair to say the past few years have been miserable for us both, in one way or another. We can either stay caught up in the past, or move forward."

Dangerous hope flickered in his chest. "Move forward?" Sherlock asked.

John licked his lips. "Look, I'm not gonna pretend I'm okay, or we're okay. We're not. I don't know when we will be. But I know we're both fucking miserable when we're apart, and we're bloody middle-aged, Sherlock. Aren't you tired of this?"

"Tired of what?"

"Being bloody unhappy," he snapped, but it was clear that his anger was directed at life, or the universe, not Sherlock. "God," he sighed harshly. "All of these things kept getting in the way of us getting together, but you know what? It was us the whole time. If we'd just _ talked—" _his voice cracked.

There was a sharp sting in Sherlock's gut. "But we didn't," he mumbled. "So now we're here."

John regained his composure. "Yeah. That's the point I'm trying to make. We're a couple of miserable sods because of the past, but if we want to change that, we can only move forward."

It made sense. "How do you propose we do that?"

John took a couple steps forward. "Well," he started. "No more secrets. I mean it, Sherlock. Whatever comes up in the future, you tell me. Don't think it would be better if I didn't know. Don't make that decision for me anymore."

He nodded. "That's completely fair," he said. "I'll always let you in from now on." His heart was beating hard. Was...was he being given another chance?

"Good," John nodded once. "And I won't blame you for anything you're not directly responsible for." He averted his eyes. "Like Mary's death. Or my own behavior." He looked back to him. "I'll take responsibility for everything I've done, and will do in the future."

"I will, too."

"And I'll be more careful about my words—"

"As will I—"

"And I'll tell you how bloody fond I am of you, Sherlock," his voice cracked again, his face crumpling.

Sherlock felt like he was either going to turn into a stone statue, or fall to his knees. There was no in between. "After all this?" he asked hesitantly, in a small voice.

John sniffed. "Yeah, Sherlock, even after all this."

Maybe his facial expression then changed to exhibit how overwhelmed he suddenly felt, because John walked to Sherlock and brought him into a hug.

Sherlock's body decided on sagging into John's arms, and he grasped the blue jumper for dear life, his throat tight and eyes hot with tears. He felt alive again.

"You're a piece of work," John said thickly. "But so am I. I still love you, you nutter," he held him tighter. "If we give this another chance, built on truth this time, I think we can work."

Sherlock didn't know what he did to deserve such mercy. "You're sure?" he asked timidly.

"Yeah," John said, putting a hand in his messy curls. "I'm sure. This is my decision."

"I love you," he lifted his face. The need to say this to John directly was more important than feeling embarrassed about whatever sorry state his appearance must have been in. "I'm sorry I got it wrong the first time, John, but if you give me another chance, I swear I'll work hard to do right by you."

John's smile was a little unsteady. "I _ am _giving you another chance." His smile faded. "Besides, plenty of people wouldn't give you the amount of chances you've given me."

Sherlock realized his fingers were still clenched around the jumper, so he released John and wiped his eyes. How did he get so lucky to get a second chance? He could hardly believe it. He couldn't jump for joy—they had been through too much for that—but he felt like taking care of himself again.

As if reading his mind, John pointed a finger at his chest. "And no more letting yourself starve and go sleepless because of me. I mean that, too. You need to take care of yourself for _ you, _not me."

Sherlock frowned, feeling uncomfortable because John was right. "Okay," he said simply. He pressed his lips together. "What now?"

John shrugged. "We play things by ear and see where our relationship goes? That was my plan, anyway."

"What does playing by ear look like?" He just didn't want to make any assumptions and ruin this fragile thing between them.

John wrapped his hand around the back of his neck and pressed a small, soft kiss to his lips. He pulled away after four heartbeats. "Like that."

Sherlock could only feel relieved as the deep, aching heartbreak drained from his chest. "That's good," he said dumbly, his voice rumbling.

The corner of John's mouth ticked upwards. "Yeah. But, beyond that? I'm not ready for that yet." His mouth turned back into a straight line. "We've still been through a lot."

"I understand," Sherlock said truthfully. He wasn't sure if he had the energy, mental and physical, to do anything more, either. He was so tired. "I estimate it will be some time before we settle into a semblance of normalcy."

John held one of his hands. "But I'm willing to try. Are you?"

"Yes," Sherlock rasped, and was given another small kiss. He ran his thumb over the top of John's hand. "Thank you."

John shook his head. "Let's not get into a loop of thanking and apologizing to each other or we'll be here for a year."

His mouth twitched into a smile. "True." But he wanted to say more. It was only right. "Even so, I didn't think you would want to see me again. I'm grateful, John."

He twisted his mouth to the side, and he looked at him thoughtfully. "When everything came back to me, and I got more information from you and Lestrade, I realized…" He let out a small, hollow laugh. "I realized just how fucked up our lives are. We've had so many lunatics try to ruin our lives, but they're all gone. Why should we keep doing their work for them?"

Sherlock, for the first time in awhile, felt warmth in his chest. "You're so clever," he praised.

John grinned. "I knew you thought so."

"Of course I do." He paused. "Cleverer than I am in some ways, but in others…"

John poked his rib cage. "Watch it."

Sherlock smiled tiredly. He was starting to feel good again. This conversation was like collapsing into a pile of fluffy pillows after days without sleep—it was much-needed and felt divine, but he was incredibly worn out.

John must have noticed. "You look like you've slept less than I have over the past several days."

"Probably," he mumbled.

"Why don't you go lie down?"

"No," his eyes widened suddenly, because what if he went to sleep and woke up alone again? "I'm fine."

John sighed. "Sherlock," he said firmly, "you can't stop taking care of yourself like this anymore. Especially not because of me."

Sherlock felt himself flush, feeling aware of his glaring issues with his self-worth. He knew this wasn't healthy—mentally or physically—to do every time he had a falling out with John, but he couldn't help it. He didn't take great care of himself before he fell in love with John, anyway. It was a problem he always had. "Perhaps I should work on this issue from now on, too," he said, not looking at John.

"I think it's for the best. You...You can drive me mad, but I never want to see you hurt. But don't just take care of yourself for me."

Sherlock's eyes flickered up to his. "You, too. I mean, I remember how you grew somewhat fond of alcohol after Mary…" He trailed off, realizing that wasn't appropriate to say.

But John wasn't upset. "You're right. I remember that. Look, we've both got a lot of shite to work through. It is what it is."

Sherlock wondered if he remembered the last time he said that, but didn't ask. "Indeed."

John looked down at his watch. "I don't have to pick up Rosie for another three hours. Why don't we just sit down? You look dead on your feet."

As long as he wasn't leaving yet, Sherlock was okay with that. They sat down on the sofa, not embracing, but with their shoulders touching.

"We were about to have sex," John said, looking to the middle of the room.

Sherlock inhaled sharply. "Pardon?"

"We were going to have sex that night, before Lestrade came over."

Sherlock stared ahead, too, because he couldn't bear to look at John during this conversation. "I was about to stop it. I'm serious about that. It felt—wrong. Lestrade's interruption was good timing, that's all. I swear."

"You do?"

"Yes."

John sat there silently for a minute. "That was still fucked up, Sherlock."

"I know. That's why I was about to stop it. I'm sorry."

"I know you are. The thought of our—_ your _first time being built on lies…" He shook his head. "That really hurt to find out. Nearly made me sick."

Sherlock didn't know how to respond. There were no adequate words for the charade he executed.

"But I guess my entire marriage was built on lies," John said unhappily.

Sherlock turned his face towards the windows, just to avert his gaze. It was cloudy outside.

_ "Why is she like that?" _ John asked upon finding out Mary was the shooter. _ Why is she like you? _was the real question.

"You deserve better than what she gave you," Sherlock said. "And what I've given you. I'm not much better than Mary."

"You are," John said. "She never even liked me, I don't think. But like I said, you can't change what you've done. I'm just thinking out loud, I guess."

He didn't feel much better. "Hm."

John shifted beside him. "I just need to say in person that...I'm sorry for that day with Culverton Smith."

Sherlock turned to him and found remorse etched into the lines of John's face. "What happened to not being able to change the past?"

"I know, but I still needed to say it," John murmured, and placed his hand on top of his. "Never again. You have my word."

"It's water under the bridge," Sherlock said, because that was how he truly felt. They both sat back into the cushions with heavy sighs. The guilt would not go away easily, from either of them. It was simply something they had to learn to live with. _ It is what it is. _

"You've changed," John said.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"I said you've changed," he looked at him directly.

"I heard you, but, how so?"

John's expression shifted, turning into something a smidgen kinder. "You wanna know another reason why I came back here?"

He nodded sincerely.

"You didn't make excuses for yourself in your emails. You apologized over and over again, and owned up to the things you'd done, and acknowledged how I felt."

Sherlock blinked. "That's what I should do."

John's face turned kinder still. "That's what I'm talking about," he said. "Sherlock Holmes in 2010 wouldn't have thought so. I think you've always been a good man at heart, deep down, but you didn't think of others' feelings back then."

"Well, you made me better," Sherlock told him. "Do you remember what I said during your wedding reception? I said I was only redeemed by the warmth and constancy of your friendship." He swallowed, remembering that day, and how terribly he felt that night. "I meant every word."

John's face was still kind, but was sadder now. "You give me too much credit. I think, after you came back from the dead, you were kinder than I was. Until the whole fake relationship bit," he joked dryly.

Sherlock ducked his head._ "John."_

John laughed lightly. "But I'm serious, Sherlock. You feel guilty. I'm not saying I want you to feel that way forever, but the fact that you were able to empathize with me in your emails was a nice surprise. I'm sorry I ever called you a machine."

Sherlock merely waved his hand, unwilling to accept the compliment. He wasn't there yet. "What are friends for?"

He pursed his lips. "I don't know if 'friends' is what we can call ourselves," John said.

"We're too old to call each other 'boyfriends.'"

"Agreed. 'Partner' is too business-like."

"We could think about it later?"

"Good idea."

They lapsed into a relatively comfortable silence, letting the late-morning sun filter through the windows and shine on their feet on the floor in front of the sofa. Sherlock's mind went over their conversation, and he thought more about something John said earlier. Over the years, Moriarty, Magnussen, and Mary tried to kill or ruin them, but here they were, sitting on the same sofa that was here when they moved into 221B. They were here, together. They won, not the ghosts from the past. No one ever said reconciliation was easy, but it was possible. Strangely enough, things seemed to work out for them in the end.

Sherlock looked at John, and the grey in his hair that hadn't been there when they met. They could grow old together now.

John turned his head on the cushion and looked at him, eyes questioning and tired, but with a touch of affection in them. "Why're you staring at me?"

Sherlock squeezed his hand, feeling emotion pouring into his chest. After everything, John Watson was here, holding his hand. "I think we'll be all right, someday," he said, voice rough.

John's lips turned up in a little grin. "I think so, too."

Sherlock's smile turned into a yawn.

He raised his arm. "Come on."

He looked down at his arm blankly.

John rolled his eyes. "Lie down, genius. I've got time, and you need more rest."

Sherlock tentatively curled up against John, his head against his shoulder. If his body weren't so worn out, he would have trembled. He never thought he would be in John's arms again. He closed his eyes and inhaled, committing the scent of his jumper and cologne to memory.

John wrapped his arm around his shoulder. "I'll wake you when I leave for Rosie."

Sherlock nodded, his eyes closed. There were still hurt feelings between them, and angry wounds from the past that would take months to begin to close, but they were together with no more obstacles or false pretenses in their way. For the first time, there were no secrets between them. They weren't okay, not really, but they accepted that they would be in the future. They would work through their issues and communicate, and they would learn to kiss each other deeply again, and make love and laugh together without the specters of the past hanging over them.

But for now, John sat with Sherlock in 221B as he napped on his shoulder, and felt that he unambiguously made the right decision by returning here, to him.

For now, it was enough.


End file.
